


don't let me go (hold me in your beating heart)

by annabeth_writes



Series: Season 8 Rewrite [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Mild Language, Season 8 Rewrite, Unplanned Pregnancy, please do not read if you know that will make you angry, read the prequel to understand, sansa's story is not the same from season 5 onward, she is one of several antagonists, this fic is not dany friendly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:15:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24964357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_writes/pseuds/annabeth_writes
Summary: Bran comes to Winterfell days before Jon leaves for Dragonstone, revealing a secret that has the power to change everything. Reeling at the sudden revelation, Jon and Sansa come together for a tender, emotional night just before they receive a letter that calls him to the south, where a conquering queen commands three dragons and has the resources to end the War for the Dawn. When Jon returns to Winterfell with Daenerys Targaryen and her armies, he is faced with a hostile North and yet another dangerous secret that will shape the future of Westeros itself.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Season 8 Rewrite [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807105
Comments: 55
Kudos: 411





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [we are buried in broken dreams](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18456587) by [annabeth_writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_writes/pseuds/annabeth_writes). 



> This is a rewrite of _we are buried in broken dreams_. Some things will be different. Some may be the same. Please don't judge this fic off of the last one. I'm trying to right a lot of wrongs and do better this time around, since I have a more comprehensive plan for the entire fic. I hope that you all like it!
> 
> The prequel to this fic is necessary to understand the changes to Sansa's storyline. If I don't mention that something has changed, assume that it happens the same as in the show. Unfortunately, I couldn't fit every possible fix into the fic or it would be never-ending.
> 
> Title: Don't Let Me Go by Raign

Sansa was no stranger to sleepless nights. The terrors that haunted her dreams and the horribly real monsters that crept in the shadows prevented her from feeling safe in the darkness. Yet none of those things kept her awake this particular night. She was haunted by the past, though not her own. It was the revelation of a secret long kept that weighed upon her mind. The kind of secret that would have fit quite well to the stories she once favored. A chance encounter at a tourney. A forbidden romance. A hidden prince. All things that the Sansa of old might have swooned over.

She knew better now. 

As lost as she felt amidst the revelation, she could only imagine how Jon must be taking it all. He withdrew into his chambers in the wake of Bran’s revelation, understandably sequestering himself away from the world. Though Sansa wished there was something she could do for him, she could only uphold the North in his absence and whisper prayers for his undoubtedly troubled mind. Even now she stood hunched over her desk in the day’s gown, wrinkled as it was, scouring old scrolls and tomes in hopes that they would reveal some hidden secrets of how to see the North through winter.

Bran had few answers himself and Sansa felt guilty enough for asking him. He was alive. It should have been cause for celebration. Yet his revelation resonated between the three of them so deeply that they could hardly react to Bran showing up at the gates with Meera Reed and far-off eyes that didn’t belong to the warm, lively brother that Sansa remembered. Yet now it seemed that he was the only brother left to her, with Robb long dead and Rickon so recently buried in the crypts and Jon… Jon who was never her brother at all. Jon, who had grown more familiar to her in recent months than in their childhood.

Jon, whose distinctive knock suddenly reached her ears.

Sansa crossed to the door quickly, careless of the late hour as she unlatched and opened it. There he stood, half turned away as if he’d nearly decided to leave in the moments between his knock and her opening the door. Though his face was almost entirely hidden in shadow, she could see the anguish in his eyes. Aware of the guard at the other end of the passageway, Sansa wordlessly stepped aside. Nothing would come of it, of course. There was nothing remarkable about her half brother entering her chambers. That he was her cousin, in truth, was known to so few that they were in little danger of scandal at the moment.

Jon moved past her slowly, as if in a daze, and Sansa felt an odd pull in her chest while she shut and latched the door once more. By the time she turned to face the room, Jon stood in the middle of her outer chamber looking quite lost. His hands were curled into fists at his sides, his eyes cast to the floor as if he questioned his right to glance about. Or perhaps it was something else. Sansa could only imagine how he felt standing in these chambers that had once belonged to her mother and father. One who had spurned him and the other who had lied to him. She could not blame him for feeling uncomfortable there, yet she wished that he would stay all the same.

Approaching him slowly, as if he might flee at any sudden movement, Sansa hesitated before carefully laying a hand over his shoulder. He shivered beneath her touch as his skin scorched her palm even through the tunic that he wore. She wondered briefly if he’d always burned so hot, thinking back on their childhood and coming up with few memories of a shared touch. Was it his true father’s blood that flowed in his veins that made him thus? The blood of the dragon? She felt a sudden rise of guilt at the thought, as if she’d betrayed Jon by thinking it, and she nearly withdrew her hand when he tilted his head toward her without meeting her eyes.

“You should sit,” Sansa said, reading his weary exhaustion in the slumped set of his shoulders.

Jon tensed beneath her touch, as if he might refuse, and Sansa pressed her hand more firmly — _insistently_ — on his shoulder.

“Please.”

It took several moments but she gave a quiet, relieved sigh when he jerked his head in a quick nod of assent. Her hand fell away as he moved towards the hearth. Sansa busied herself with the simple task of pouring them both a cup of wine. Such was not usually to her taste, after Cersei and Tyrion, but she knew that they could both use it. As she turned back, Sansa’s heart ached at the sight of Jon bent over in the armchair, his elbows resting upon his knees and his face buried in his hands.

She crossed to him slowly but he was alert to her steps and lifted his head as she drew near. Sansa felt his eyes upon her but she did not look back at him as she nudged one of the cups into his hand. Their fingers brushed lightly, sending a thrill up her spine, and she withdrew quickly to hide how her breath caught in her throat. Sansa arranged her skirts carefully with her free hand as she sank into the other chair, fussing with them for far too long all while her cheeks warmed beneath the weight of his stare. As she finally settled, she took a dainty sip and did her very best not to meet his eyes.

“Thank you.”

Sansa couldn’t help but look up at his quiet murmur, feeling terribly struck by the sound of his rough, disused voice.

“Of course,” she said softly, feeling driven to speak no louder.

The room itself invited a certain inescapable quietude, as if a spell had settled within the four walls as soon as Jon walked through the door. With only the crackling fire and distant northern winds filling the silence between them, the tension only seemed to grow with the passing moments. Sansa sipped slowly at her wine, letting it warm her chest as she stared resolutely at her lap. She knew that if — _when_ — she looked at him again, it would be all the more difficult to tear her eyes away again.

“He was going to tell me.”

Against her own resolve, her head snapped up as she clutched her cup in both hands. Jon gazed distantly into the flickering flames as if they held the answers to unasked questions. Perhaps they did for him. It was a fire god that seemingly brought him back to life, after all. Melisandre of Asshai might be long gone from Winterfell but her influence remained with every breath that he took.

“Before I went north with Uncle Benjen, he said that he would tell me about my mother the next time we saw one another.”

 _Father_ , Sansa realized. She breathed in deeply, wishing that she could ease the depthless pain that this revelation had brought him.

“And you never saw him again,” Sansa said, feeling a swell of sympathy and guilt as tears welled in her eyes.

Jon closed his eyes, working his jaw as his thumb traced the rim of his cup. Sansa swiped the tears away quickly, focusing on the path of his thumb to keep herself from succumbing to the emotions that warred within her. Her tears would do him little good. She suspected that they would only drive them further apart, if he saw and convinced himself that he was burdening her.

“Why couldn’t he just tell me from the beginning? I had a right to know,” he said, his voice simmering with anger. 

Sansa hesitated to answer, considering his question carefully as she set her cup aside.

“You did,” she said soothingly, her breath catching slightly as his dark eyes lifted to meet her own. “And I know that it may not comfort you, but we both know that Father did it to protect you.”

Jon stared at her with a tormented look in his eyes.

“I used to dream that my mother was alive,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “That I would find her one day.”

Sansa’s lower lip quivered as tears stung at her eyes once more. She knew that any sympathies she offered would be empty, as there was no way to truly know how he felt. She had never been through anything like this. Rising to her feet at once, she closed the short distance between them and dropped to her knees before him, easing the cup from his hands before taking them in her own.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, looking up at him with unshed tears in her eyes as she gave his hands a gentle squeeze.

It took a moment for him to break but Sansa’s heart shattered to pieces all over again as his resolve crumbled before her very eyes. Tears flowed from his Stark grey eyes as he choked out a wretched sob, shaking his head as if he could drive it all away by sheer force of will. Sansa surged to her feet, bending at the waist to wrap her arms around him. In spite of the inconvenient position, Jon clutched her close and buried his face in her hair. She could feel him trembling with the weight of all that he held inside. All of the anger and sorrow and doubt.

As much as she wished he would release it all, she knew that she had no right to ask it of him. Not when he was grieving for a life he would never have and a mother he would never know. Jon had every right to choose his path here. If he wished to bury his pain, who was she to judge him for it? Didn’t Sansa do the same every day of her life? Turning her head, she pressed a kiss to his tear-stained cheek, tasting salt on her lips as she pulled away.

“No one has to know,” Sansa said, looking deep into his eyes. “You’re still a Stark.”

Jon gazed back at her, his lips parting slightly as the sorrowful look in his eyes gave way to a molten heat. Sansa nearly shivered at the sudden change, feeling that same curious pull in her chest as the air around them seemed to shift.

“I’m not,” Jon said, trapping her in place with the way his voice curled around the words.

Her brow furrowed with confusion, her eyes flitting over his face as she tried to discover what he meant by that.

“I’m not a Stark.”

His hand lifted as he spoke, his thumb brushing lightly over her cheekbone.

“I’m not a Targaryen.”

His other hand fisted at her skirts, tugging her forward until she all but fell sideways in his lap.

“Jon,” Sansa gasped, a rush of anticipation rising within her.

“I’m no one,” he said, ignoring her weak protest as his words came out in a near growl.

“You’re not,” she said, forgetting all else as her hand rose to lay over his heart even as her own felt as if it would beat right out of her chest. “Not to me.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed slightly and she felt his breath upon her throat as he spoke once more.

“What am I to you, then?”

His thumb moved lower, brushing the corner of her mouth before stroking up her jaw. Sansa felt as if he was stealing the very breath from her lungs, her chest growing tight as his other hand curled over her hip.

“You-” she cut off, watching as his eyes dipped to her lips before meeting hers again. “You’re Jon.”

Sansa couldn’t think of what else to say. To her, it was simple enough. That was all that mattered. He was Jon.

“I couldn’t do this if I was your brother,” Jon said, brushing a loose lock of hair away from her face. “I shouldn’t even be doing it now, should I?”

She leaned her face into his touch, her body craving something that she didn’t understand. Sansa couldn’t even remember the last time someone did this. Plenty of men had touched her yet none of them had done so with true tenderness and innocent affection. They all wanted something from her. They wanted to pretend that she was something she wasn’t. With Jon, she sensed that he touched her simply because she allowed it. If she wished to stand up and command him from her chambers, Sansa knew that he would let her. It felt powerful. It felt heartbreakingly new. She didn’t want to lose it. She didn’t want to lose _him_.

“Don’t leave.”

Jon stilled, his eyes suddenly growing distant. Sansa silently cursed her misstep, knowing what he heard in her words. A plea that she’d kept to herself, so close to her heart that no one would see. But Jon grew harder to lie to with each day that passed and she feared that the deepest, most terrible desire of her heart had just been laid out before him with such desperate words. She awaited his disgust, feeling quite certain that he would shove her away and take his leave at any moment. But then he refocused on her, his eyes more aware than before. He molded his burn-scarred hand to her cheek and searched her eyes for something.

Whatever answer he looked for, Jon must have found, for he leaned in after a moment and brushed the lightest of kisses over her lips. A kiss unlike any she’d ever been given before. Then he flinched away, likely expecting that she would rise from his lap in a storm of fury shout at the indignity of his actions. Instead, Sansa lifted her hand and pressed it over his where he still held her cheek, turning her face to kiss the palm of his hand before shyly meeting his eyes from beneath her lashes. That was all that it took. Jon’s arm slid around her slim waist quicker than she could blink.

“Do it,” he said, his eyes wide and pleading as he tilted her chin up gently. “Tell me to stop.”

Sansa’s chest rose and fell quickly as she reached up with shaking fingers, stroking through his hair. She did not know why he expected her to pull away now when she had done nothing to stop him thus far. Shifting her hand to the open collar of his tunic, she felt quite brazen as her smallest finger brushed along his collarbone. It was not a particularly daring act, yet it seemed dangerous all the same. Lifting her eyes to meet his once more, she shook her head slightly and parted her lips to speak.

“No.”

Heat scorched through his eyes once more just before he drew her in, claiming her lips in a far more passionate kiss. Sansa shuddered away at first, memories of stolen kisses flooding into her mind before she remembered that this was Jon. _Her_ Jon. No matter what else happened or what other secrets might be revealed, one thing would never change. He would never, ever hurt her. Sansa knew that. She gave herself away to that comfort, relaxing into him as she kissed him back with equal fervor.

Their bodies molded together as best they could in such a position, entangled so completely in the dark that anyone would have a hard time telling who was who. Sansa’s heart skipped as Jon’s tongue swept into her mouth, tasting the remnants of wine on her lips. As his hand closed over her hip through her gown, Sansa shivered and stroked her fingers through his hair as she’d imagined doing so often. Jon tilted his head, breaking from her mouth to press kisses along her jaw, teasing at a sensitive spot behind her ear with a scrape of his teeth and a flick of his tongue.

“Oh,” Sansa breathed out, feeling hotter and hotter with every second that passed.

Jon twisted his fingers into her hair, gathering it away from her neck so that he could kiss and nip along her throat.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered against her skin.

Sansa shook her head, lifting her hand to twist her fingers through his dark locks to hold his head to her.

“No.”

He let out a groan, the feeling of it drawing up more heat from deep within her. Sansa had never felt quite this way, with her skin itching for more and her body aching for relief as the juncture of her thighs throbbed desperately. Light as it was, the gown she wore felt far too heavy. Far too restricting. She could barely breathe, though that was largely due to how lovely it felt as Jon kissed the hollow of her throat, his tongue darting out to taste her skin.

“Please,” Sansa managed to gasp, the laces of her gown feeling far too tight. “Please, I need… I need…”

“What do you need?” Jon asked, the low, rough sound to his voice sending a thrill up her spine.

“Off,” Sansa bit out urgently as she reached around, trying to pull the ties of her gown free herself. “Too tight.”

A sharp gasp tore from her throat as she found herself on her feet quite suddenly. Jon spun her around before she could catch her breath, her hands flying to her chest as his fingers tugged at the laces deftly, loosening them until her dress hung from her shoulders. She took in a deep breath, holding the gown up with her hands as she tilted her head back towards him. Jon didn’t cease touching her, his hands falling to her hips as he bent his head to brush his lips over the side of her neck. Yet there was a sudden hesitation in his demeanor that hadn’t been there before. Sansa breathed in and out deeply before turning her head to meet his gaze.

“Do you want to stop?” she asked, her voice trembling with uncertainty.

Jon swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he took her in, from her mussed hair to the color high in her cheeks and her kiss-swollen lips.

“No.”

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief, turning to face him as she let her hands drop away, pushing the gown from her shoulders and dragging it down over her hips to fall to the floor in a puddle of fabric. She stepped out of it without hesitation, reaching for him. He came willingly, the heat of his body even more potent now that she wore no more than a shift. Sansa reached between them as they kissed, her fingers shakily unbuttoning his smooth leather jerkin as she tried to come to terms with what was happening. It wasn’t fear that she felt, but anticipation. Exhilaration. _Need_. 

Jon helped her peel the jerkin away, tossing it somewhere behind him as she stepped out of her slippers and stumbled with him towards her bedchamber. As if crossing that barrier seemed a monumental thing, Jon broke away with a sharp exhale and stared deep into her eyes, searching them once more for something. His hand lifted slowly and settled on her throat, simply resting there without restricting her breath at all. Sansa shivered at his touch, quite aware that he had the strength to end her life yet knowing without a doubt that he never would.

“What are we doing, Sansa?” Jon breathed out.

Sansa lifted a shaking hand, stroking his cheek lightly as she relished in their close proximity. In the way that her lips tingled in the wake of his kisses and how her skin burned for his touch.

“We’re giving in.”

She spoke plainly, perhaps too plainly, for Jon blinked several times at her words. Sansa all but held her breath, hoping that she was not alone. That all of the lingering glances and tense moments where they hovered too close and stared too long meant something. That it wasn’t all in her mind alone. Holding her gaze as he drew away slowly, Jon stroked his thumb over the flutter of her pulse and exhaled a deep, shaking sigh.

“Are you… are you certain that this what you want?” he asked with something in his voice that told her he would do anything if she asked it of him, even if it pained him deeply.

Sansa could see how much he wanted her and that he would set his desire aside to bend to her wishes made affection, warm and bright, burst forth in her chest. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders rather enthusiastically, pushing on her toes to press her lips to his. It did not escape her notice that she had never given a kiss so willingly before. It felt all too natural for Jon to be the first as if it was meant to be that way. Jon let her guide him toward the bed, opening her mouth to speak as she did. 

“I want this, Jon,” she whispered in answer to his question. “I want it to be my choice. I want it to you be _you._ ”

As he sank down onto the mattress, his eyes lifted and she felt struck by the utter vulnerability in his gaze. Want stirred in their depths, but it was nothing compared to the faith he showed her. He nodded slowly and Sansa felt a rush of relief and overwhelming want. She tucked her hair behind her ear, sinking her teeth into her lower lip as she brushed her fingers over the scars around his eyes. Then she slowly sank to her knees amidst his sharp intake of breath as she tugged his boots off one at a time, as she’d seen her mother do for her father before, so long ago.

She barely managed to straighten up again before he reached back, pulling his tunic over his head. Then he grasped her hand, guiding her to straddle his thighs. She floundered for a moment, wondering what exactly she was supposed to do and blanching at the idea of getting something wrong. Then his hands cupped her cheeks gently and he gazed at her with open awe in his dark eyes, chasing away her worries as he kissed her so sweetly that Sansa thought she might melt right then and there. Her body flinched with surprise when he laid back, bringing her with him as their kiss deepened.

Sansa’s hair draped around them like a curtain, the hem of her shift pulling where it was trapped between her knees and the bed. Her sleeves tugged down as a result, revealing her shoulders and the tops of her breasts as she pulled away and sat up to fix it. The position landed her right atop Jon’s lap, his arousal pressing into her backside and pulling a surprised noise from her throat as he groaned at the feeling. Sansa’s eyes grew wide, her hands stilling as she stared down at him. He looked so different here and now, as if she was seeing him in an entirely new light. She let her eyes take him in without shame, from the curl of his dark hair to the beard that covered his jaw

Lower and lower, her gaze swept over him. Her attention lingered on his scars, her hands lifting of their own accord to trace the healed wounds. When she first learned of what happened to him at the Wall, it was almost hard to believe. Now that she was seeing the scars for herself, any lingering skepticism faded in an instant. She couldn’t imagine the pain that he must have felt, with half a dozen blades sinking into him without mercy. But it was not the thought of his pain that brought tears to her eyes, but of the betrayal that accompanied it. How Jon must have looked in his final moments, lost and alone, bleeding in the snow. 

“This shouldn’t have happened to you,” Sansa said, her breath hitching on her words as a tear slipped down her cheek. “I’m so sorry, Jon.”

She lifted her eyes to meet his own as he stared at her with something like disbelief and awe in his eyes.

“They’re just scars,” he said, though she could hear deep in his voice that it wasn’t entirely true.

If anyone could understand, it was Sansa. She had a few herself and knew just how aware they made one feel. And they could expose some vulnerability. Sansa knew what she must do, though the thought of it terrified her. It had been so long since anyone saw her scars. Since she looked upon them herself, in truth. She closed her eyes and lifted her hands, shaking untying the ribbons of her shift.

“Sansa,” Jon caught her hands, causing her to open her eyes once more. “You don’t-”

She gave him a smile, shaking her head as she gently pulled her hands from his.

“It’s alright,” Sansa said, loosening the ribbons completely. “I needed to see yours and now you need to see mine.”

Jon’s brow furrowed with confusion as she climbed off his lap, turning away from him once her feet touched the floor. Sansa lifted her shift over her head and let it fall, gathering her hair over her shoulder so that he could see the marks upon her back. Scars from long healed wounds, reminding her always of Joffrey and his cruelty. Of knights that had no trace of chivalry or honor. She heard him curse quietly, his hand lifting to allow his fingers to trace over one that cut across her spine. Glancing over her shoulder, Sansa met his eyes and saw a storm gathering there. Fury beyond belief. She felt somehow validated and comforted all at once, the look on his face giving her strength.

“How?”

Sansa swallowed hard, turning towards him after a moment.

“Not now,” she whispered, not wanting to ruin this moment with such awful memories. “Please.”

Jon looked as if he wished to argue, but he nodded instead and reached out towards her. She let him pull her in close, reaching up to stroke her fingers through his hair as a means of distraction. Jon didn’t look up at her this time, skimming his lips between her breasts and drawing a sigh from her lips. When his hand lifted, Sansa stilled and waited for what he would do only to let out a soft moan when he traced his thumb around her nipple, teasing and teasing until it hardened. Only then did he flick at it as she clutched his hair, heat flaring in her core at the feeling.

“Beautiful,” Jon murmured, rolling her nipple between his finger and thumb as her breath came out in short gasps. “So beautiful, my sweet Sansa.”

She felt as if she could cry, tilting her head back only to whine when his lips closed around her other nipple, sucking and licking and nipping at it as she arched into the incredible feeling of it.

“I want more,” Sansa confessed.

Jon kissed his way to her other nipple, blowing on it lightly.

“I’ll give it to you,” he promised, his tongue darting out to lick at her stiff peak. “I’ll give you everything.”

Sansa’s legs weakened just in time for him to catch her, pulling her onto his lap once more as he moved them further back on the bed. Their bodies molded together as their lips met in an all-consuming kiss. Jon’s hips rocked against hers as he wrapped an arm around her waist once more, her moan muffled as she felt his arousal rub against the damp smallclothes that covered her mound. She caught his pace easily, moving her hips in time with him as he hummed out his approval. Then his hand moved between them, inching into her smallclothes as she broke away from the kiss. A keening moan rose in her throat at the first touch of his calloused fingers to her folds. Jon stilled in an instant, his eyes fixing upon her face.

“Is this alright?” he asked, worry lingering in the undertones of his voice.

Sansa nodded, finding it nearly impossible to summon the words to her lips that would let him know that it more than alright. Jon seemed to understand, pressing his fingers more firmly to her core as she whimpered.

“You’re already so wet for me,” Jon said, his voice low and yet filled with wonder as his middle finger traced up her slit. “So good, sweet girl.”

He stroked around her clit in slow circles, teasing her until she felt as if she’d come undone at the seams if he didn’t do something. The slightest look of amusement crossed his face as she told him as much but Sansa had no time to berate him for it before he let his finger stroke over her clit.

“Oh… Jon that-that’s so… oh gods that’s so… please don’t… don’t st-”

Sansa felt as if her tongue had tied itself into a knot, tripping over words as she rocked her hips desperately, grinding into his hand as he stroked and teased at her clit, sending sparks of heat and pleasure through her.

“I want to see you come,” Jon said, pulling his hand away and swallowing her noise of protest with a kiss as he carefully turned them over.

She let him gently ease her back on the bed, pushing up on her elbows to watch his hand fumble with the ties on her smallclothes before laughing softly and batting him away to do it herself. Jon kissed her again as she wiggled out of her underthings, feeling far less exposed than she thought possible as his hand slipped between her thighs once more. He laid out on his side next to her, parting her folds and gathering her wetness on his fingers before rubbing at her clit once more. Sansa dropped back to the bed, her hair fanning out on the furs as she moaned out his name.

Jon’s eyes remained fixed upon her as he dipped his fingers lower, teasing one at her entrance as his thumb continued stroking her clit in a gentle, relentless massage. Sansa couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes, letting her own fall closed as she bit back a cry at the feeling of his finger pressing into her. At first, her body tensed at the intrusion, unused to how it felt, but she relaxed after a moment and Jon hummed out his approval. She felt helpless when it came to her hands, clenching them in her hair until Jon bent down to brush a kiss over her lips before whispering in her ear.

“Touch yourself, sweet girl,” he urged her.

Sansa whined, not sure what that meant until he guided one of her hands to her breast. Then she knew exactly what he intended for her to do. Turning her head for another kiss, she let her hands squeeze and knead at her breasts, flicking and stroking her nipples as he worked his finger in and out of her before adding a second. Sansa’s toes curled at the feeling, her lower belly forming a tight, hot coil as her skin grew more and more heated. Sweat trickled down the side of her neck even as she felt the coolness of winter touch upon the air.

“Oh go- Jon I’m… I’m close… I think I’m… I-I don’t… I don’t know…”

“Shh,” he soothed her, moving his fingers quicker as he rubbed at her clit in quick circles. “Just let go, Sansa.”

She shivered at the sound of his voice encouraging her and taking hold within her. Her body grew tenser and tenser as the fire in her core grew hotter with each passing second. Sansa tossed her head against the mattress, her knees drawing to her chest on their own as the coil tightened one moment and released the next. Waves of uninhibited, delicious pleasure washed over her, drawing moans and cries from her lips. Breathlessly chanting Jon’s name, she fell boneless against the bed and grasped at his hand to stop him once it grew to be too much.

Jon wiped his hand on his own breeches before bracing himself over her to capture her pliant lips in a kiss. Sansa slid her arms around his shoulders, pressing her palms over his warm, smooth skin. When he started to pull away, she whined in protest and kept him close, chasing his lips for another kiss. He acquiesced all too easily, his hand falling to her bare hip as he kissed her lazily, his thumb stroking over the scar there. Sansa didn’t even flinch, feeling a deep need for more.

“What do we do now?” she asked, pulling away to look into her eyes.

Jon gave her a hesitant look.

“It would be wise to stop,” he said carefully.

Sansa considered his words for a moment, knowing even in the tingling after-effects of her pleasure that he was right. If they thought this through rationally, this was an ideal place to stop. They hadn’t done anything they couldn’t take back. But her heart quickly took over her mind, reminding her of all that existed outside of this room. White Walkers and wights. Cersei and her army. Daenerys Targaryen and her dragons, who had landed upon Dragonstone and immediately called for every kingdom, including the North, to bend the knee. Everything that they couldn’t control. So many things that could easily kill them.

“Perhaps I should care more for what is wise,” she said, pressing her hand to his cheek. “But I’m not done with you quite yet.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled down at her. Sansa pushed up to sit, guiding him until he was flat on his back once more. Her hands were surer now, unlacing his breeches as she watched him for any sign of uncertainty. There was nothing apart from heated desire in his eyes, encouraging her to disrobe him completely. Sansa sat back to take him in completely, his body fashioned into that of a warrior with lean yet strong muscles and silvery scars. The hair on his legs dark and coarse. His cock flushed and leaking where it curved against his belly. Sansa reached out, wrapping her fingers around him. A curious satisfaction rose in her chest at the gasping noise that slipped out of him at her touch.

She stroked him slowly, gathering the wetness on the tip to ease her task. Sansa relished in each moan and curse that fell from his lips, shuffling forward until she straddled him. Jon watched, his eyes wide and blown with lust, as she guided him to press into her. Though it pinched and brought tears to her eyes, Sansa felt a sense of breathless elation that swept through her. The same feeling she had when she leapt from the walls of Winterfell with Theon. When she’d accepted Brienne as her sworn shield. When the Vale knights sweep through the Bolton forces. When she watched as Jon took Ramsay’s head with a downward arc of his Valyrian blade. A feeling of complete and utter freedom and satisfaction.

“Fuck,” Jon groaned, shuddering as she lowered herself on his cock until he was seated fully inside of her.

Sansa brushed the tips of her fingers over his abdomen, letting herself grow used to the feeling before rocking her hips slowly. She felt almost galvanized, her body relaxing to accommodate him. It felt good in a way entirely unlike his hand had before. There was no true pleasure in it yet but she felt close to ecstasy all the same. Jon pushed himself to sit, grasping at her hips and guiding her movements as they grew quicker and more desperate. Sansa found herself moaning as she twisted and rocked against him, her hands clutching at his hair as he kissed her throat and sucked at her nipples.

“I want… I want to see you,” she gasped out, holding his head close to her chest. “Your eyes, Jon. I want-”

He didn’t let her finish, grasping her hips and flipping them over before settling in the cradle of her thighs to thrust into her once more, gentle and yet unyielding. Sansa cried out hoarsely, her fingers digging into his back as he moved within her slowly and deliberately. His face was mere inches from hers, their noses brushing as their eyes locked together. Sansa couldn’t tear herself away, gazing at him as she felt heat building within her once more.

Jon gritted his teeth and pressed his hands into the mattress on either side of her head, careful not to yank at her hair as he thrusted into her at a quicker pace. Sansa knew she would need more to come again, snaking one hand between them as the other grasped at his shoulder. Jon groaned and his eyes fluttered closed for just a few moments when he felt the bump of her hand as she began rubbing at her clit desperately. The noises falling from her lips fluctuated between high-pitched whines and guttural moans, intermixed with pleas for him to give her more, harder, faster. Jon didn’t disappoint, doing everything that she asked and more.

When she felt the familiar rush of heat, Sansa tossed her head back and barely managed to keep from shouting his name to the ceiling, pressing her hand over her mouth as she clenched around him. Her pleasure was more intense this time, darkening her vision and making her tremble and writhe as Jon rode her through it without ceasing, all while staring down at her. Sansa dragged him in for a kiss as she came back to herself, wrapping a leg around his waist and wordlessly urging him to find his own pleasure in her now.

It didn’t take long for his hips to stutter and his face to bury in her hair as he spilled within her. They were too caught up to realize and Sansa couldn’t bring herself to care, tears slipping down her cheeks as something deep in her chest seemed to fit together in that moment. It felt so right, being like this. Holding Jon close to her and feeling his heart race in sync with her own. She cried for him and the sadness she knew he would always feel over his birth. She cried for how long it took them to find one another. Mostly, though, she cried for the fact that she felt so completely whole in his arms.

“Shh,” Jon turned them over, gathering her into his chest as she let her emotions run free.

Sansa pressed her face into his heated skin, fitting so perfectly against his side as their legs tangled together. She didn’t know how long she cried, only that she felt drained once the last tear dried.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she admitted, knowing her words were safe with him, in the darkness.

Jon said nothing at all, only holding her closer. Sansa did not begrudge him the silence, finding comfort in simply existing alongside him.

*****

As the morning horn sounded, announcing the break of dawn, Sansa stretched beneath her furs and let out a sharp sigh at the ache she felt nearly everywhere. Particularly in her lower belly and at the juncture of her thighs. Her eyes fluttered open slowly as it all seeped back into her mind, reminding her of all that took place here the night before. With a gasp, Sansa turned her head to the other side of the bed and her heart sank at the realization that she was alone, the furs neatly tucked on his side.

Though he was not there, she could see that Jon had left something in his place. Pushing up on her elbows, warmth gathered in her cheeks as her eyes took in the sight of a winter rose on the pillow. There was no accompanying note, not that she expected any sort of poetry from a man of so few words. Sansa reached out, carefully taking hold of the stem until she realized that the thorns had been removed. Lifting the flower to her nose, she inhaled the sweet scent deeply and let a smile pull at her lips.

Then she heard a knock upon her door and felt quite harshly pulled from her reverie at the sound of her lady’s maid, a woman from winter town named Alarra, calling out her name. Sansa tossed away the furs and gritted her teeth at the twinge between her thighs as she stood on unsteady legs, the rose still clutched in her hand as she took a step away from the bed only to glance back on some instinct that she didn’t quite understand. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of the stain upon the white sheet. Something so innocuous yet quite telling.

Something that no one could see.

Sansa wanted to trust the people of the North. She wanted to trust Alarra. Yet with Lord Baelish lurking in the shadows and the Northern lords and ladies gathered about, she couldn’t trust that the people around her weren’t accepting gold from interested parties in exchange for secrets. King’s Landing had taught her too much and she knew better than to let anyone know what had transpired the night before, even if Jon had been smart enough to avoid being seen. Simply knowing that the Lady of Winterfell was no longer a maiden was enough to cause a scandal, even with all else that burdened them.

That thought was enough to get her moving. She did not truly think through her next steps, finding herself at the outer door in a dressing gown before she knew it, Jon’s rose still clutched in her hand. Sansa didn’t dare to open it, squeezing her eyes shut as she inhaled deeply and tried to shake the nerves from her voice. Laying her hand on the wood to brace herself, she parted her lips and began relaying instructions with a calm steadiness to her voice that she did not feel.

“Fetch Brienne for me, Alarra,” she called out, letting the solid wood beneath her hand ground her as she spoke. “I… I am not quite feeling myself this morning. You may take the day for yourself, if you wish, or find some way to help in the kitchens.”

“Are you certain, Your Highness?” Alarra asked, concern in her voice.

“Yes,” Sansa said quickly, wincing at the hardness in her voice.

Thankfully, she knew the whispers that had spread through the castle. Through all of the North, if what she suspected was true. Many people knew that she had suffered hardships in King’s Landing and did not trust easily. It took her two moons to allow anyone to attend her at all and only at Jon’s urging did she allow Alarra into her household. Right now, however, she could not trust that the girl would keep such secrets to herself. As the maid walked away with the promise to find her sworn shield, Sansa drifted from the door and found herself staring at the chair where it had begun. Where Jon pulled her into his lap and laid that first kiss upon her lips.

Lifting her hand to her mouth, she traced those same lips with trembling fingers, her heart beating rapidly in her chest as she recalled everything that happened afterward. Every touch, sigh, kiss, and moan. For years, she had feared the day that a man took her to bed. There was a time that she felt quite certain that it would be Joffrey, whether they were wed or not, and that it would be quite a cruel experience. Others came after. Tyrion. Marillion. Harry. Petyr. Ramsay. Sansa had long ago accepted that it would not be a good experience for her. Something to be endured rather than enjoyed.

But now... 

Now Sansa could have fallen to her knees and thanked the gods that it was good. Truly good and pleasurable in a way that only Margaery Tyrell ever told her that it could be. Even in spite of the fear that rushed her veins, she could not bring herself to regret a single moment of it, nor who had been the one to introduce her to such an experience. Lifting the rose to her nose once more, Sansa let the scent fill her senses until a far more thunderous knock brought her out of the haze of memories with a quiet, startled yelp.

“Your Highness,” Brienne called out urgently. “Are you harmed?”

Sansa rushed to the door quickly, opening it wide and breathing out a sigh of relief at the sight of her sworn shield, fearful and harried though she looked. Reaching out, she wrapped an arm around Brienne’s wrist and pulled her inside, not wanting to draw more attention to them. Brienne could have pulled away quite easily but she let Sansa have her way, standing to the side as she shut and latched the door once more. A gasp fell from Brienne’s lips as she turned, her eyes focused on Sansa’s neck.

“Princess Sansa,” she said warily, taking a slow step forward. “Have you been attacked?”

Sansa’s eyes grew wide and she shook her head quickly, wondering what brought Brienne to think such a thing. The other woman still did not look away from her throat and the shocked look in her eyes sent her running into her bedchamber, to the full-length looking glass that stood in the corner. As she came to a halt before it, Sansa stifled a shocked cry at the sight of a mark blooming on her throat, dark and colored like the bruises that once marked her back and thighs. Unlike those, this was not a mark of pain, but of pleasure.

Clapping her hand over it as if she could make it disappear by sheer force of will, Sansa stared at her own wide-eyed reflection and saw color high in her cheeks and a brightness to her eyes that she did not recognize. She was almost unrecognizable, with her hair unbound and quite tangled, and her lips still swollen and tender from the many kisses that they had shared. Quite against her will, a laugh rose in her throat that she tried and failed to swallow. The hand that hid the love bite on her throat now covered her mouth as she turned to face a very hesitant and confused Brienne where she hovered in the doorway.

“I apologize,” Sansa said, trying and failing to chase the smile from her lips. “This is altogether irregular and, truthfully, rather discourteous of me.”

Brienne did not say anything, her sharp eyes studying Sansa’s face and her solemn disposition making it easier to adopt a more sober air. Taking a deep breath, Sansa forced her mind to calm and shook her head once.

“In answer to your question, Brienne, no I was not attacked. You have little reason to fear on my account, in this regard at least, as everything that took place in these chambers was quite... willingly done.”

Sansa felt almost like a fool instead of the highborn lady that she was, tripping over her words in a poor attempt to explain her situation. Beckoning her towards the bed, she let the other woman see the meaning behind her words and watched warily as Brienne’s eyes lit up with realization at the sight of the scarlet smear upon the sheet. Shock did not begin to cover the look that her sworn shield gave her in the next moment. Sansa almost felt admonished by that stare, yet reminded herself that she was the Lady of Winterfell and would not cower for anyone again. Lifting her chin, she prepared for Brienne to shame her, yet felt quite ashamed without help at her next words, for thinking the worst of her most faithful protector.

“You seem... happy,” Brienne said with a searching gaze.

“I am,” Sansa said without having to think much about it. “I am, Brienne.”

With a nod, Brienne accepted her words and glanced back at the rather informative sheet.

“But no one else can know,” Sansa said quietly, lifting her hand to the mark on her throat once more. “You do understand, don’t you?”

“I do.”

Brienne said it stiffly, her shoulders bracing as if she was prepared to enter a battle. She turned to look at Sansa once more, a strong reassurance in her eyes.

“What do you need from me?”

*****

Keeping to her chambers for the morning to hold to the lie she told Alarra proved to be quite difficult, yet Sansa forced herself to do it all the same. She would not give anyone, particularly Lord Baelish, any reason to question her. Not with all that had happened, not to mention the dangerous secret that was only known to her, Jon, and Bran. As the sun finally reached its peak in the sky, Sansa ate her midday meal with unladylike haste and checked her appearance no less than four times to ensure nothing was out of place before she emerged from her chambers with a carefully arranged expression upon her face.

As she moved through the castle, not a single man or woman spared her much of a glance at all, much to her relief. Sansa was grateful for her own habits, knowing that no one would blink an eye at her visiting the solar that Jon had claimed for his own shortly after his coronation. Brienne knocked thrice upon the door in her stead, standing back with her hand resting upon the pommel of her sword. The door opened after a moment, revealing young Edwyn Stout who served as Jon’s cupbearer for the time being until he was old enough to become a squire. Sansa spared him a small smile, seeing how he fumbled with a proper bow before hesitantly turning to announce her presence.

“It’s the Lady… erm… Princess Sansa, Your Grace.”

“Let her through.”

Sansa clasped her hands together tightly and prayed that no one saw how she shivered at the warmth that rose within her at the sound of his voice, recalling all that he’d said in the night as they lay together. She nodded at Brienne to remain in the corridor as Edwyn held the door wider for her. Sansa was almost glad to see that Ser Davos sat at the table, for he gave her something else to focus on. She felt _his_ eyes upon her as soon as she stepped into the council chamber. 

Sansa’s face grew warm, knowing that he must be taking note of her high-necked gown of deep blue wool with silver flowers embroidered along the collar and sleeves. A gown that brought to mind the petals of a winter rose. She tried to keep from meeting his eyes, knowing that they were not the only ones in the room. She had grown remarkably good at hiding her thoughts, but Jon quite adept at breaking through her defenses. Sansa deemed it wiser to bow her head to him before making her way to the small rectangular table where Ser Davos had risen to his feet upon her entrance.

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing to her.

“Ser,” Sansa nodded at him in return.

As much as she liked the man, she almost wished that he would disappear as she turned to Jon so that he would not witness the color that bloomed in her cheeks. Sansa sank into a curtsy before their eyes could meet, hoping that it would give her the time to gather her wits.

“Your Grace,” Sansa said quietly, rising after a moment.

Knowing that she could not delay without earning Ser Davos’ suspicion, for she never hesitated to look Jon in the eye, Sansa lifted her head and let her eyes settle upon him at last. There was something in his eyes that very nearly took her breath away, as if he could not believe that she was truly there. Or perhaps her presence reminded him of their actions the night before and it all played out in his mind in the very same way it did in her own. Sansa’s heart betrayed her, fluttering away in her chest like the wings of the hummingbirds that flocked to the gardens of the Red Keep. She didn’t know how long they regarded one another in silence before the third occupant of the room spoke.

“If you’ll excuse me, I imagine there’s a rabble of lords ready to break the doors down. I’ll keep them busy while you two speak.”

Ser Davos’ words stripped away whatever spell had come over her and Sansa watched him go with a furrow in her brow before looking to Jon quizzically. He had not yet taken his seat, his eyes fixed upon her with his lips parted slightly and his own cheeks slightly pink. Even as Davos called for Edwyn to accompany him, Jon did not look away. Once the door shut and they were left alone, he took an abortive step towards her, his hand rising from his side as if he intended to reach out to her only to fall again. Sansa wished that he would have done as he intended, a part of her longing for the feeling of his skin pressed against her own, even if it was merely his hand in hers.

“Are you alright?” Jon asked quietly.

Sansa nodded once before swallowing hard at how stilted this felt. Even at the Wall, when they were clumsily navigating the uncertainty of getting to know one another once more, it never felt this strange. This hard. She almost mourned how easy it had been, but Sansa knew that she would not give up all that had happened between them, even for simplicity.

“And you?” she asked, almost fearing what he might say.

Would he spurn her? Shame her? Voice his regrets and accuse her of vile seduction?

“Yes,” he said quickly, lifting his hand to rub at the back of his neck as he turned away. “I-I’m fine.”

Sansa did not feel comforted by his words, taking a step forward as he reached down to nudge at a scroll that sat upon the council table.

“Another letter has arrived from the south,” he said, his voice far off to her ears. “From Samwell Tarly. I think that I told you about him. My brother… former brother, I suppose. I sent him to train at the Citadel and-”

“Jon.”

Sansa moved closer to him warily as he looked up at her with wide eyes, ceasing his nervous ramble.

“Do you… are you…” she trailed off, exhaling a frustrated breath before forcing herself to regain her sense. “Do you regard me differently now?”

To her surprise, Jon huffed out a laugh.

“Of course I do.”

After so many years of hearing sharp remarks that were meant to wound her, Sansa thought that she had developed a thick enough skin to withstand hearing anything. Yet his words cut deeply and she fought with everything that she had not to show it.

“I see,” Sansa said, her voice shakier than she would have liked as she nodded. “I-I think that I shall…”

She didn’t finish, turning away from him before he could see the tears gathering in her eyes. Before she could take even a single step towards the door, Jon’s hand closed around her upper arm and he drew her back towards him. Sansa refused to be turned, and so her back pressed to his chest and his lips brushed her ear, making her shudder in spite of herself.

“You don’t understand,” Jon said quietly, his thumb rubbing circles through the sleeve of her gown as his other hand closed over her hip. “Of course I see you differently, Sansa. How could I not, when I have seen you fall apart so beautifully beneath me?”

With an exhale of relief, Sansa leaned back into him and let her head fall to his shoulder.

“You do not regret it, then?” she asked.

Jon offered no quick answer, skimming his lips over her temple.

“No,” he finally said. “Though perhaps I should.”

“Don’t,” she said quickly, lifting her hand to his cheek. “Please, Jon. Don’t regret it. I never shall.”

He dropped a kiss to her cheek, humming his agreement before his hand moved from her arm to stroke over the high collar of her dress.

“I have not seen this on you before,” he said thoughtfully.

“It’s not the most comfortable that I own,” Sansa said, a smile forming upon her face. “But I found it quite necessary when I rose from my bed to find that a wicked king left his mark upon my throat.” 

Jon stilled for just a moment before pushing aside the stiff collar, inhaling sharply at the mark that stood out against her pale skin.

“Sansa-”

She turned in his arms, looking up into his eyes as she pressed a finger to his lips.

“No,” Sansa said, shaking her head. “I was so happy when I woke and found a beautiful winter rose upon my pillow. I will not let it be ruined.”

Jon nodded slowly after a moment, lifting his hand to gently take hold of her wrist. He pulled her hand away from his mouth just enough to press a kiss to her palm. Sansa smiled, warmth flooding her once more as she fought the sudden urge to throw her arms around his shoulders and lay a careless kiss upon his lips. It was not wise to do so when anyone could walk through the door at any moment.

“You spoke of a letter from your friend,” she reminded Jon.

At her words, his eyes darkened and he let their hands drop without releasing hers.

“We can speak of it at a later time,” he said, something heavy weighing upon his voice.

Sansa’s smile faded as she saw the worry in his eyes.

“What is it?” she said, unwilling to be dissuaded so easily. “Troublesome news from the south?”

Jon regarded her hesitatingly as if he did not wish to answer. But then he shook his head and turned to guide her to the table.

“In some ways, yes,” he said, drawing out a chair for her to sit in. “He has discovered something that can help us.”

“That can only be good, then,” Sansa said worriedly, wondering what could possibly be in this letter to make him so conflicted.

Jon said nothing at all, taking his own seat before handing the scroll to her. Sansa took it warily, almost afraid to read it. But she steeled herself and unrolled it, knowing that she had read horrible letters before. But this one made her blood ran cold as she read over it once, then twice, understanding the implications almost immediately.

“Dragonglass.”.

“Aye,” Jon said, leaning back in his chair as he drummed his fingers over the table. “A mountain of it.”

“Forgive me if I am wrong but you did say that dragonglass kills the dead, yes?”

He nodded slowly, letting her catch on in her own time.

“And white walkers as well,” Jon said.

Sansa let the scroll slip from her fingers, watching as the two edges rolled back together. Jon took it carefully, rolling it back into its former state and slipping it into his cloak. Sansa knew what that meant. She was not the only one who would see this message. He intended to share it. Something would come of this information. She already suspected what that may be. A cold feeling swept through her veins, making her feel quite lost in the wake of such a happy morning. Sansa’s hands withdrew out of his reach, clenching down upon the armrests of her chair.

“You could send an emissary to treat with her,” she said quietly, hoping that he might heed her words.

“Daenerys Targaryen is a queen,” Jon said with a shake of his head. “Only a king can convince her to help us.”

Sansa lifted her head, giving him a wide-eyed look of disbelief.

“Jon, she will not recognize you as a king. The letter from Tyrion made it quite clear that she wants you to bend the knee.”

Jon’s mouth twitched as he leaned back in his chair, his eyebrows pulling together in a frown.

“Perhaps I can persuade her to accept a different course for the good of the realm.”

Sansa wanted nothing more than to take hold of his shoulders and shake him as if he was an unruly child that refused to listen. She knew that he tended towards a hopeful view of things over a realistic one. She’d seen it firsthand, as they traveled through the North and did everything that they could to gather allies. He grew determined to take on the Bolton forces with a smaller army than the one that they needed, believing that they had a chance to win regardless of numbers. 

From what she knew, it was a similar optimism that drove him to bring the free folk south of the Wall. The exact decision that led to his death at the hands of the black brothers under his command. Sansa would do anything to keep him from suffering a similar fate once more, though he seemed quite determined to dodge any efforts that she made. The thought of it nearly brought frustrated tears to her eyes as she looked away from him, inhaling deeply in an effort to calm herself before she spoke to him again.

“You would not present yourself before Cersei Lannister so carelessly,” she said slowly, staring down at the table. “Why would you do so before this woman, who you do not know? Do you care so little about your own life? Have you forgotten who her father is and what he has done?” 

Jon seemed taken aback by her biting tone, straightening in his seat in the corner of her eye.

“My grandfather, you mean?” 

Sansa felt a stir of remorse in her chest that brought her eyes back to him quite quickly.

“You are a Stark,” she said vehemently, holding his gaze. “I don’t care who sired you. Lyanna’s blood won out, Jon. You’ve shown no sign of taking after the Targaryen blood in your veins.”

“Such a sliver of a detail that it will matter little to the lords that despise the Targaryens for what happened during the rebellion.”

“So you seek to bring another Targaryen here, with three dragons at her back? That is how you win their hearts?” Sansa all but demanded.

“No, that is how we win the war!”

Sansa moved at once, her chair scraping over the floor as she rose to her feet and paced away from him, frustration rising within her.

“And what happens when you arrive on the shores of Dragonstone?” she demanded, turning back to face him where he still sat. “Will you bend the knee upon her command and give her the North or will you simply stand there and let her burn you to ashes?”

Jon’s jaw tightened at her words and she was almost pleased to see that he seemed just as frustrated as she felt by the turn of their conversation.

“You know Tyrion better than anyone. Do you truly think that he would let that happen?” he challenged her.

Sansa stared at him for a long moment, realizing now why he must have confronted her about this in private before bringing the news to the lords and ladies that were gathered at Winterfell. He knew that she would speak out against him and sought to counter her arguments without being overhead by those who would question him as well. Jon didn’t want a repeat of what happened with Ned Umber and Alys Karstark. Sansa could almost understand it, if it didn’t wound her to know that he still didn’t see that she was on his side, no matter how much they argued. Had last night not shown him enough? Did he still doubt her so?”

“You assume that Tyrion has control over what his queen does,” she said carefully, watching him closely to see his reaction. “Even if he does, you would be a fool to trust the word of a Lannister, even Tyrion. You think that he is the man you once journeyed with but neither of us knows him for certain and we cannot risk the life of our king on a whim!”

“Aye, I am your king,” Jon said in a raised voice, pushing to his feet at once. “I do not seek your permission. Nor do I need it.”

Sansa stared at him with disbelief, almost unable to believe that this had gone so wrong when they were only just embracing. Blinking once, then again, she found it all too easy to shield her face from him as she nodded her head.

“Very well, Your Grace,” Sansa said coldly, sinking into a low curtsy.

Without so much as requesting his dismissal, she moved for the door on quick feet once she rose to her full height, ignoring his call of her name as she wrenched it open and swept past Brienne without a word.

*****

The room was quiet, lit only by the fire in the hearth where he sat. Unmoving and unspeaking.

“Did you know that this would happen?”

Bran gave her no answer at all, simply turning his head to meet her eyes. She swallowed hard at the fathomless depths that seemed filled with such endless years of knowledge. It terrified her. Her little brother, changed into someone — _something_ — that she didn’t recognize.

“He will go,” she said quietly, wringing her hands together.

“He must,” Bran said, his voice as empty as when he told them of Jon’s true origins.

“Why?”

Yet again, he gave no answer. Sansa wanted to shout at him as tears stung her eyes.

“Will you be there?” she asked.

He shook his head once.

“You will find the words to say,” Bran said, the slightest ring of confidence in his voice.

Sansa didn’t know if he’d seen it come about already or if he was showing faith in her abilities. Either way, it didn’t seem to matter. Turning away, she left behind the stranger in her brother’s body to make her way to the Great Hall.

*****

“I hear that you were unwell this morning, Princess.”

Biting back the low curse that formed upon her tongue, Sansa felt ever more grateful for her decision to trust Brienne alone as she turned to face the sly gaze of Lord Baelish. It came as no surprise that he chose to approach her in the Great Hall, before the nobility of the North and the Vale that gathered at Jon’s command. He would want to emphasize his personal relationship with the king’s sister before them all, giving the impression of favor even if Sansa knew well that Jon hated him more with every breath that he took.

“It was a fleeting headache, my lord,” Sansa said, bowing her head to him. 

The smallest of smiles formed upon his face and his eyes flitted over her searchingly, as if he could read the untruth in her words. Sansa fought the urge to tear her gaze away from him, fearing quite briefly that he could sense the changes within her. That he might know all that she did in the dim moonlight, as keen as if his eyes were upon her for every moment of it. Then she felt a hand gently close over her elbow as a familiar woodsy, northern scent washed over her.

“Your Grace,” Lord Baelish said, lowering himself into a bow that somehow seemed to make a mockery of the man at her side.

“Lord Baelish,” Jon said stiffly.

Sansa’s pleasant smile froze upon her face as she felt irritation wash over her, that he would approach her at all after their argument. When she knew well why he gathered all these men and women together. When _he_ knew well how she felt about what he intended to announce.

“The meeting will begin at any moment.”

Though the statement was innocuous enough, no one could rightly remain ignorant of the dismissal in Jon’s words. Baelish’s eyes flashed for a brief moment, the only outward sign of his displeasure as he nodded his head and stepped away. Sansa did nothing to try and smooth over the stilted exchange, though she knew she should, all but grinding her teeth together as Jon guided her towards her seat with a hand at the small of her back. He did not sit, standing at her side with a hand on the back of her chair as he looked out over the gathering. 

Sansa forced herself to remain stone-faced and straight-backed, with her hands folded atop the table and her chin raised proudly. Her eyes searched the hall for allies. Baelish would do nothing to stop it. He would prefer Jon far away from Winterfell. All the better to plot against him if he wasn’t there. The northern lords, however, would not take it well if their king left them when Jon had spent months warning them all of the threat beyond the Wall. Bran was not there. Sansa didn’t know whether his presence would harm or help.

“Lords and ladies,” Jon said loudly, calling them all to silence as he stepped around the table to stand in the center of the room. “I thank you for coming. Your enduring support will be more than necessary in the great war to come.”

Sansa eyed him warily, her hands clasping tightly together as she determinedly avoided those cool, calculating eyes that she knew were settled upon her. Jon commanded the hall with ease, a natural leader no matter how reluctant he was to wear the crown that sat upon his head. A crown of nine bronze swords, much like the one that Robb had worn. A crown of winter kings. He looked like a hero from old stories, draped in furs she had sewn by her own hand with a handsome Stark grey doublet beneath.

“This message was sent to me by Samwell Tarly,” Jon said, his voice carrying as he held up the scroll. “He was my brother of the Night’s Watch, a man I trust as much as any in this world. He’s discovered proof that Dragonstone sits on a mountain of dragonglass.”

Mutters rose up in the room, some echoing the discomfort of the lords at the mention of the Targaryen stronghold. Sansa knew that the worst was yet to come and that Jon would not hesitate to bring it down upon them with his unfettered speech. He handed the scroll from Samwell Tarly off to Lord Glover before producing another, far more incendiary scroll from within his cloak. Sansa straightened in her chair, her breath catching in her throat as he turned away to face the hall.

“I received this a few days ago... from Dragonstone,” he said carefully, smart enough to know that he edged along a dangerous line now.

 _Oh Jon,_ Sansa whispered in her own mind. _Why must you do this? They are still learning to trust us._

“It was sent to me by Tyrion Lannister,” he said, causing the mutters to rise in pitch as the lords and ladies expressed their anger and disapproval at the gall of such a man to write to the King in the North. Yet Jon pushed through it all to say his piece. “He is now Hand of the Queen to Daenerys Targaryen. She intends to take the Iron Throne from Cersei Lannister. She has a powerful army at her back and, if this message is to be believed, three dragons.”

They were all but shouting now, as Sansa’s face grew paler and her eyes wider, her eyes darting about to take in the reaction of men from the North and the Vale both. They looked disgusted. Inflamed. Enraged. She wavered between rising to her feet to placate them and remaining silent to let Jon enjoy the chaos he had created.

“Lord Tyrion has invited me to Dragonstone, to meet with Daenerys Targaryen,” Jon called over the rabble. 

That was when he turned to face her, a hesitant look upon his face. Sansa knew what he would say next. She wanted to shout at him before he could. To keep him from uttering such foolish words. To chain him there and prevent him from doing something stupid. From being like her father. Like Robb. From throwing himself into the path of danger only to die like all the Stark men before him, in the south where he did not belong. For he was a Stark man, no matter who sired him. Lyanna Stark’s blood flowed strongly in his veins. She silently begged him to remember that.

“I’m going to accept.”

Sansa kept to her seat, keeping her face clear of reaction as men leapt to their feet all around. Sansa did not look away from Jon, and he did not tear his gaze from her. They stared and stared, words passing between them without being spoken at all. She hated that her chest ached so furiously, even though she knew that this was coming. She hated that it felt like such a betrayal. Sansa wanted to scream her fury and rain down her wrath but still she sat, knowing that she could do neither. She was not Jon Snow’s lover here. She was Princess Sansa of House Stark. The Lady of Winterfell. A protector of the North.

“We need this dragonglass, my lords and ladies,” Jon said, whirling about to face the hall again. “We know that dragonglass can destroy both white walkers and their army. We need to mine it and turn it into weapons. But more importantly, we need allies. The Night King’s army grows larger by the day. We can’t defeat them on our own. We don’t have the numbers.”

Sansa saw movement from the corner of her eye and tilted her head to meet Brienne’s sharp gaze, seeing that her shield was studying her carefully to see what she thought of it. She gave nothing away, knowing that Brienne wasn’t the only one who watched. Sansa had to look ahead. Far ahead. Past this room. Past this ridiculous proposition. Jon would not be dissuaded. The lords would not be convinced. _Fight every battle in your mind,_ Petyr hissed in her ear as if he were right beside her and not across the room.

“Daenerys has her own army and she has dragonfire. I need to try and persuade her to fight with us,” Jon continued on, turning to face the head table yet looking to the other occupant instead of Sansa. “Ser Davos and I will ride to White Harbor tomorrow, then sail for Dragonstone.”

“A Targaryen cannot be trusted! Nor can a Lannister!”

Sansa flinched at the roar, her eyes breaking away from Jon to settle upon a red-faced Lord Royce. For a man who so often remained calm in the face of anything, it was shocking to see that he was so bothered by this news. Sansa felt a rise of worry, that Jon would hear such a thing and take that insult upon himself, knowing now that he shared his blood with the same family that haunted men like Yohn Royce. 

“Aye,” several voices rose up in agreement.

“Have you forgotten your own kinsmen?” Lord Mandery demanded, taking on the difficult task of bringing his heavy mass to his feet. “Lord Rickard and Lord Brandon were murdered by the Mad King!”

“I know that,” Jon said, raising his hands in a gesture meant to placate them.

“It could be a trap!”

“The Mad King’s daughter will burn you on sight!”

“Fuck the Targaryens!”

“Fuck the Lannisters!”

“We called your brother king,” Lord Glover growled out, rising to his feet. “And then he rode south and lost his kingdom.”

“Winter is here, Your Grace,” Lyanna Mormont said, commanding the room just as easily as anyone else. “We need the King in the North _in_ the North.”

Jon looked lost in the face of Lyanna’s words, his eyes growing distant and sad. They swept over the room, catching on her own for a lingering moment. She remembered how he had looked the night before, gazing at her with the same lost look as he came to terms with his true roots. Sansa wanted to reach out and take him into her arms every bit as much as she wanted to cuff him on the arm for this. She felt as if her heart was laid bare before him, after all that she said as she laid in his arms. 

_I don’t want to lose you,_ she had whispered for his ears alone.

Yet now it seemed that she would. To his duty. To the south. To a queen.

“I was raised in these halls. I was raised in these lands,” Jon said, his voice much quieter than before. “I’ve called the North my home all my life and I will never stop fighting for it, no matter the odds. But the odds are against us. None of you have seen the army of the dead. You cannot understand what you face until you look death in the eyes. Take my word for it, as a man who has seen them and fought them, that we can never hope to defeat them alone. We need allies. _Powerful_ allies.”

He turned on the spot as he spoke, his eyes flitting from one person to the next until he finally faced her once more. A pleading look in his eyes, that she might understand why.

“I know it’s a risk. But I have to do it.”

Sansa finally rose to her feet, keeping her back straight and her chin high. She clasped her hands tightly before her, resisting the urge to wring them together anxiously at the thought of all that could go wrong. How did they end up here? She could still feel the warmth of his skin against her own. The press of his lips. The touch of his rough, calloused fingers. Yet all of it seemed to fade with every passing moment, as she reckoned with the idea of losing him so easily.

“What about your people?” Sansa asked, her eyes darting about the hall before returning to him. “What about your home?”

“I’m leaving both in good hands,” Jon said, his eyes growing soft.

She blinked several times at his words, thinking through the names that he could choose. Placing any northern lord as his regent would be an insult to the rest. He had already announced that Ser Davos was going with him. That left few options. Bran, perhaps? They had both offered him their positions upon his return but he rejected being both King in the North and Lord of Winterfell, telling them quite firmly that his path would lead to neither. But he might accept being the regent of the North for a short time, if he knew that Jon would return.

“Whose?” she finally asked, her question reflected in the eyes of everyone who watched and listened.

“Yours.”

Sansa inhaled sharply, rocking back on her heels as that single, powerful word hit her with all the force of a shove.

“You are a Princess of the North,” Jon said, a gentle tone underlying his words as he nodded at her. “You are the eldest Stark in the North and the Lady of Winterfell besides. I dare a single man or woman in this room to find fault in your ladyship.”

Swallowing hard, she looked about the room once more and found that no one seemed prepared to argue against him. Her eyes passed briefly over Baelish, who looked quite satisfied, and she felt a knot form in her stomach that did not go away as she met Jon’s gaze once more. There was more to this. More than just appointing a regent. More than him giving her the faith that comes with such a responsibility. Jon looked at her with sadness in his eyes, as if he had accepted some awful truth that she did not yet know herself.

“The North is yours,” Jon said, bowing his head to her. “I know that you will serve her well in my absence.”

She let his words settle over her, knowing that she had to speak now to all who were gathered, to reassure them and keep the faith in their king strong. She couldn't let them turn against Jon, even if it meant letting him go. Even if she hated it. Even if a part of her hated him for it.

“Our king would do anything for the North,” Sansa said, her eyes moving past him to the lords and ladies. “Has he not shown us that? When he pledged himself to defend the Wall as a green boy, no more than seven and ten? When he accepted the position as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch? When he fought in the battle to restore Winterfell to the Starks? When he executed Ramsay Bolton for crimes against many of the houses that are gathered here now?”

No one spoke out to oppose her words, though they exchanged wary glances.

“Let us trust him now,” she urged them all, looking anywhere but at him. “You had faith enough in Jon Snow to name him your king. That he would defend and protect us all to the best of his ability. Have faith now that he will fulfill the oaths he made to you all on the day of his coronation, before the heart tree of our ancestors. He wears that crown in service of you. He will treat with Daenerys Targaryen in service of you. And he will return to the north and defeat the army of the dead in service of you. Do we not have faith in our King in the North?”

It started quietly, but soon enough the lords and ladies were all standing, echoing her words and shouting their oaths to the King in the North. Jon looked at her with something like awe in his eyes. Sansa could barely hold his gaze as she felt her heart give way to the pain that struck as deep as any blade. Turning away, she silently took her leave from the hall amidst calls of his name, leaving him to suffer the faith of their people. Knowing that she may have just sent another man of Stark blood to his death in the south.

A man that she loved.

Once she stepped outside, her feet carried her through the courtyard quickly, her mind far too troubled to spare anyone a glance. Even if they tried to call for her attention, her ears were deaf to their words. Sansa found herself moving through the godswood, tracing a familiar path to the heart tree as her chest rose and fell quickly. She didn’t even have the sense to fetch her cloak before delving into the wintry outdoors, snow seeping into her skirts and weighing them down as she brought herself to the pale weirwood and all but collapsed on her knees before it. 

She didn’t hear the approaching steps, only aware of her companion when his cold nose brushed over her cheek and the heat of his body seeped into her shivering form. Sansa leaned into Ghost, closing her eyes as she let his presence soothe her. There was no telling how long she sat there but she _did_ take notice of the next presence that intruded upon her solitude. Sansa fisted her ungloved hand into Ghost’s fur, squeezing her eyes shut tighter as if she could pretend he was not there, even as he cursed aloud and lay his cloak about her shoulders.

“Gods, Sansa,” Jon said, his hand cupping her cheek. “What were you—”

“Do not,” Sansa all but hissed, flinching away from him.

Her eyes opened only to see the hurt reflected in his. It was nothing compared to the wound in her chest, aching and bleeding without end.

“You’ve been planning this since you received the letter from Tyrion,” Sansa said, hating the guilt that formed in his eyes. “You knew that you would leave the moment you heard of Daenerys Targaryen’s dragons.”

Jon let out a burdened sigh, rubbing at his forehead as he dropped back to sit in the snow with little concern for his own health.

“Something like that could be a tremendous advantage,” he said quietly, staring at her with a plea in his eyes.

To understand. To trust him.

Yet all she could think of was her own words, mocking her as they repeated over and over again in her mind. _I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose you._

“What if you are mistaken? What if she is no different from her grandfather?”

“I must hope that she is not.”

Sansa turned her face away, her tears freezing upon her cheeks. She did nothing to stop him as he drew her into his arms, arranging her upon his lap as he sat in the snow without a care for his own health.

“I would stay here,” Jon whispered, leaning his forehead against her temple. “If there was a choice, a true choice, I would never leave. I would be at your side for the rest of my days.”

Sansa lifted a shaking hand, clenching her fingers in his doublet as she shuddered with the effort of keeping her sobs at bay. 

“Then stay,” she said in a small, pleading voice.

Jon sighed, his answer going unspoken. Sansa tucked herself closer to him, knowing that the fight was lost. She had given him all that he needed to leave, all but promising to keep the faith of the lords in him as he tried to gather all that they needed to win an impossible war.

“You cannot tell her who you are,” she said quietly, keeping her head upon his shoulder as she spoke. “You cannot tell anyone. If she finds out that you are a threat to her claim, you will never make it off of Dragonstone.”

“She may be good,” Jon said weakly.

 _I once thought that of Joffrey,_ she thought to herself.

“You must come home to your people, Jon,” Sansa said, knowing that he would find the truth for himself soon enough. “You must come home to me.”

He held her closer, pressing kisses to her hair as he murmured promises that she couldn’t bring herself to trust. Yet Sansa let him swear his oaths to her, knowing that they brought him comfort even if she could not say the same.

*****

When the time came, she stood out of the falling snow with Bran at her side and they watched as Jon mounted a horse. He glanced over his shoulder as she knew he would, allowing himself one last look at her. Sansa didn’t care who was watching as she let the longing show on her face, knowing he had to see it. That he had to know how desperately he’d be missed. She watched the gates until well after they closed, unable to bring herself to move. For she dreaded the thought that she would never see him again. She didn’t know whether she’d survive if her fears became reality.

“There isn’t time to waste,” Bran said at her side, his voice betraying no emotion at all. “We have much to do.”

Sansa nodded slowly, her eyes flitting from the closed gates to the mockingbird that stood in the middle of a castle where he would never truly belong. He rubbed at his throat, looking quite unhappy with his own eyes fixed upon the gates. As Ghost trotted by, she watched Baelish flinch away at his silent snarl. Sansa couldn’t help but give the direwolf’s ears a scratch when he reached her, knowing that Bran spoke true.

There was much to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear what you think!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all so much for the incredible response that you gave the first chapter! Thank you so much!
> 
> This chapter isn't quite as long but it's a transition from where we left off in the last chapter and encompasses all the time between Jon's departure and his return so there's not all that much to tell that's different from canon. I hope that you like it!

In the dim light of her bedchamber, illuminated only by the flames of the hearth where she stood close enough to feel their heat, Sansa stared at the small, weathered scroll that she held in her hands. It felt like a lifetime ago that she wrote Cersei’s words as neatly as she could with a prayer in her heart.  _ Please, _ she had begged silently where no one could hear her.  _ Please come help us. _ As far as she knew, Robb never gave an answer. He simply called the banners and marched south. He would never make it to King’s Landing, nor would he ever see Winterfell again.

The King Who Lost the North, they called him.

What would they call her, if they knew of this letter? No worse than she had been called before, but it was vital that they retain the trust of the North. Without it, how could she protect Jon? How could they fight a war against an undead army? How would they ever have the chance to look to the future without fear? Lord Baelish tried to use this letter to weaken her, ensuring that Arya found it and hoping that it might be the start of turning them against one another. Sansa knew his game before it even began, and even allowed him to think that he was winning until the moment came to end the mummer’s dance.

_ You stand accused of murder. You stand accused of treason. How do you answer these charges… Lord Baelish? _

She had almost pitied him as he blinked with confusion. But then she recalled all that Bran had seen, and all that she knew herself, and any sympathy grew as small as his chances of making it out of the Great Hall alive.

_ Sometimes when I’m trying to understand a person’s motives, I play a little game. I assume the worst. _

As the words left her lips, Sansa had watched the hope fade from his eyes. He had choked out her name, just before Arya’s dagger cut into the delicate skin of his throat. Sansa could still smell the stench of his blood in the air, permeating her senses so deeply that she wondered if she would ever forget it.

_ Thank you for your many lessons, Lord Baelish. I will never forget them. _

She spoke truly and wondered if the words offered him any comfort in the moments before his death. His name might fade from all knowledge, mentioned only in passing as a Master of Coin or simply another cursed Lord of Harrenhal. Perhaps he may even be marked in the books as the once Lord Commander of the Vale, though Sansa doubted that Yohn Royce would allow it if he had any say in the matter. Yet his lessons would live on in the one person he thought so entangled in his web that she would never turn her back on him. Even now, as she held that piece of parchment in her hands, Sansa knew that he would have long-since rid the world of something so incriminating.

“What are you waiting for?”

A gasp wrenched its way from her throat as she turned at once, catching sight of Arya where she sat on the edge of her bed. There was no telling when she had entered Sansa’s chambers. If Ghost were there, she would not have been able to sneak by so easily. But he was out hunting more often than not these days and Sansa had no warning before her quiet little sister startled her.

“What?” she managed to say, pressing a hand over her racing heart.

“Burn it,” Arya said, knowing full well what Sansa held. “You should’ve done it ages ago.”

Sansa looked down at the scroll, brushing her finger over a frayed corner.

“You don’t think that Jon should know about it?”

“I meant what I said. He wouldn’t care,” Arya answered with a shrug.

Turning back towards the crackling flames, Sansa still found herself hesitant to toss it in.

“Sometimes, I wish I’d been more like you,” she admitted, remembering how fiercely she wanted to push Joffrey to his death that day on the castle walls. “I wish that I had spoken my mind and damned them all to the deepest of the seven hells before all the court.”

“Then you’d be dead.”

Arya didn’t sound awed by her survival. It was a statement of fact. Sansa had done what it took to survive, just as much as the rest of them. The past was the past and she couldn’t change a thing about it. Stretching her hand out, Sansa let the scroll drop into the flames and watched it burn, knowing that she had to look to the future now that a giant was slain.

*****

Standing upon the battlements with Ghost at her side, Sansa found her attention split between the sprawling winter town that seemed to grow with every day that passed, with newly constructed buildings holding those both highborn and low who sought shelter in the shadow of Winterfell, and the distant funeral pyre that sent small plumes of smoke into the frozen winter air. Though she had refused to allow his ashes to poison the ground within Winterfell, Sansa felt the need to stand a distant vigil over his unremarkable funeral. Ghost lay at her feet, as he so often did these days, refusing to be moved lest he venture out into the wolfswood to hunt.

He lifted his head at the sound of approaching steps, though he gave no indication that they were a threat to her. Sansa followed the line of his red gaze and felt a rise of trepidation within her chest at the sight of Lord Royce drawing near. Ghost had seen the man at her side often enough to allow his approach, laying his head back down on his paws as the Vale lord joined Sansa at the wall. She eyed his sword warily, though she kept her gloved hands folded delicately atop the wall that separated them from a sudden drop. With a racing heart, she parted her lips without truly knowing what she would say.

“I must beg your forgiveness, Lord Royce,” she said, her voice strong yet remorseful.

She felt his eyes upon her as she kept her own forward, watching the fire burn Petyr Baelish’s body to ash.

“Your Highness?” Lord Royce questioned, prompting her to continue.

Sansa’s stomach gave a lurch as she recalled the tears she shed and how her voice wavered as she recounted a false story of Lysa Arryn’s death. Though the last weeks had given her reason to grow used to the taste of bile on her tongue, Sansa prayed that she did not lose her stomach here and now. Alarra knew well enough to ask no questions, no matter how many soiled chamber pots she had to empty. Sansa could not expect Lord Royce to do the same.

“I gave false testimony in defense of Lord Baelish in the aftermath of my aunt’s murder,” she confessed, even knowing that he could hold her words against her. “I make no excuse for my actions. Perhaps I should have told the truth that day. Many things might be different if I had.”

A part of her wondered if she might have wound up in the North at all if she had told the truth. Lord Royce and the other Lords Declarant had shown sympathy for her plight when she confessed her true identity. Perhaps they might have sheltered Ned Stark’s daughter in the North for the rest of her days, if need be.  _ I might have never come to the North, _ she thought to herself, shuddering as another bout of nausea rolled through her.  _ I might have never seen Jon or Arya or Bran again.  _ Sansa pushed the thoughts away at once. There was no use dwelling on something that never had the chance to be.

“You were little more than a girl, Your Highness,” Lord Royce said knowingly, turning his head to stare forward as well. “That man had a way of twisting people into knots. I’m certain he did the same to you.”

Sansa held her tongue, not wanting to tell him that she had seen through many of Lord Baelish’s manipulations from the start.  _ I know what you want, _ she had told him after ensuring that he would not die in the Vale. He only proved her right in the end, that he would get rid of anyone who got in the way. Ser Dontos. Aunt Lysa. The Dragon Queen. Arya. Jon. Sansa could only imagine what he might have done with the most dangerous secrets that she kept from him. The truth of Jon’s birth. The night they spent in each other’s arms. And the consequence of that night.

“Should you wish to return your men to the Vale in preparation for winter, I would understand,” she said, hoping desperately that he would refuse.

She caught his movement from the corner of her eye as he turned to face her fully.

“The Knights of the Vale did not ride to the North for Petyr Baelish,” Lord Royce said, all but spitting the name as if it was poison on his tongue. “We did so for the blood of Ned Stark, and it is for the blood of Ned Stark that we remain.”

Sansa felt tears prick at her eyes, relief washing over her like a wave as she turned to look at him at last.

“Thank you,” she said, nearly choking out the words amidst the overwhelming alleviation that his words brought her.

Lord Royce lowered himself into a bow and Sansa took a moment to breathe in deeply, refusing to submit to her emotions. The lords respected strength, not weakness. Her tears would not help her now.

“Shall we?”

Sansa watched as he offered his arm to her before turning her head back to the distant fire. There was little need for her to watch to the end. Baelish’s body may well burn straight through the night and Sansa was quite willing to release herself from the hold he had upon her. Turning away, she gathered her skirts in one hand and took Lord Royce’s arm with the other. Ghost leapt to his feet in a smooth motion, leading the way to the steps as if he knew exactly where they planned to go. Once they reached the courtyard, surrounded by the flurry of activity that seemed to exist on a near permanent basis, Sansa’s attention was drawn to the approaching steward of the castle, recognizing the harried look upon his face.

“Your Highness,” he said, acknowledging her with a bow once he drew close enough to be heard. “A man with a woman and child quite recently passed through the castle gates and asked for the king by name.”

Lord Royce stiffened at her side, his mouth growing thin with disapproval. He was one of many who grew more suspicious with each day that passed without word from Jon. But to her relief, he did not join the likes of Lord Glover and Lord Cerwyn as they railed against her cousin and accused him of every failing that they could think of.

“Did these visitors give you their name?” Sansa asked, laying a hand on Ghost’s head as he shifted forward to sniff at the steward, making the man grow slightly paler.

“I-I believe the name was Tarly, if I am not mistaken.”

Without truly meaning to, Sansa allowed a smile to bloom upon her lips.

“Where are they?”

The steward barely managed to nod towards the Great Hall before she breezed past him with Ghost at her heels. Sansa did not look back to see if either Lord Royce or the steward followed her. A name so heavily featured in the stories Jon told her in the quiet nights as they traveled throughout the North flitted through her mind. Sansa could scarcely wait for a guard to open the door to the Great Hall before she stepped inside amidst a blast of cold wind, caring little for the mussed state of her hair or the eager flush that rose to her cheeks.

A portly man stood in the exact center of the hall, his eyes wide as he took in every inch of it. A pretty woman was at his side, undoubtedly slim beneath the furs she wore with her dark hair plaited into braids that Sansa recognized from the free folk women that she had encountered before. The child in her arms hid his face in her furs, peeking out at Sansa with the same wide dark eyes as his mother. Before Sansa could say a word, Ghost bounded forward with a wagging tail and all but knocked the man over, earning a breathless laugh and a bold hand scratching at his ears.

“You are Lord Samwell Tarly,” Sansa said, finding that he matched the image she’d crafted of him from Jon’s stories. 

All three sets of eyes settled upon her then, as the sound of her voice drew Ghost back to her side. He nudged at her knee, then her stomach, before lying down at her feet with a huff. Samwell regarded her with eyes even wider than before, his lips parted in a shocked manner that she did not understand as he took her in from the top of her head to the hem of her gown. At his side, his companion met Sansa’s gaze unflinchingly with a certain curiosity in her eyes.

“I am, Your Highness,” Samwell finally managed to say, lowering himself into a bow.

The woman did not offer such obeisance, true to her upbringing. The free folk did not kneel. Sansa had long ago accepted that.

“Forgive me, my lord. Jon told me so many stories that I feel as if I know you already,” Sansa said, her eyes flitting from Samwell to the woman at his side. “This must be Gilly, if I am not mistaken.”

She looked quite stunned to be named, nodding her head slowly. Samwell looked proud beneath the uncertainty that shone in his eyes. Sansa could see that they both held themselves warily, as if they expected to be attacked at any moment. Their eyes flitted over her shoulder and she looked back not only to see that the steward had followed her in, but that two guards stood at the door with their attention focused entirely upon the exchange. It was not uncommon, when Sansa found herself around anyone outside of her own family or council, to be protected by the castle guards. But Samwell and Gilly did not know that and they had some reason to fear their presence.

“Is everything alright, my lord?” Sansa asked, turning to face him once more.

“Of course,” Samwell rushed to say before exchanging a look with Gilly. “I just… I heard that Jo-  _ the king _ … is not here. I wasn’t entirely certain that we would be welcomed without him, in truth.”

Sansa almost immediately understood his hesitant words. The woman at his side. The babe in her arms. The colors that he wore. Not the black garb of the Night’s Watch. There was no chain around his neck, though she recalled that Jon mentioned his studies at the Citadel. That was why he was in Oldtown at all, sent to receive a maester’s education so that he could take over the position at Castle Black. Here stood a man who had quite clearly renounced his oaths and trusted only in the mercy of a brother in arms to pardon him. Sansa took several steps forward and Ghost moved with her as she drew nearer to stand before Jon’s closest friend.

“I’ve heard stories of your bravery, Lord Samwell. If Jon were here, he would say that we need every man that we can get and I’m inclined to agree with him. Putting that aside, however, I do not intend to hold you to the oaths you made at the Wall. As you may recall, our king spoke the same ones as he knelt at your side,” Sansa said, a reassuring smile pulling at her lips. “These are unprecedented times. No man or woman can deny it. For your courage and for your friendship with our king, you and your family will have a place at Winterfell as long as you wish. I promise you that.”

Sansa nodded at the steward, who called a kitchen maid to bring forth a plate of salt-dipped bread. Gilly looked somewhat hesitant but Samwell nodded at her to eat it. Even the boy in her arms took a small bite of the chunk she held only to pull a face at the taste of it. A laugh rose to Sansa’s lips before she could stifle it and the child looked at her with bright eyes, no longer peering out from his mother’s shoulder.

“This is Sam as well,” Samwell introduced, his chest puffed out slightly.

“I am honored to meet you, little Sam,” Sansa said, gifting him with a small curtsy that brought a smile to the boy’s lips.

Gilly adjusted him at her hip, sharing a look with the elder Sam. Sansa considered them both carefully as they took the cups of water offered to wash down the bread.

“As you can imagine, Lord Samwell, our maester is quite overwhelmed with his duties, as we are filled beyond our usual capacity. He would undoubtedly welcome an extra pair of hands to assist. Would it be presumptuous to ask if you might take on a share of the burden?” Sansa asked, tilting her head to the side with imploring eyes.

“Oh, o-of course, Princess,” he stammered out, bowing to her once more.

Sansa waved him off, not needing to hear the title from his lips.

“If Jon were here, he would not allow you to be so formal,” she said confidently, seeing the agreement flit over Samwell’s face. “I declare here and now that you are a friend to House Stark. So please, call me Sansa.”

She allowed him no chance to argue, looking to Gilly next. Here stood a woman who hailed from north of the Wall. A person no more interested in the great game of the south than any other wildling that passed through these halls. If Gilly was anything like her people, she would be an excellent addition to Sansa’s household. A trusted companion who could not be corrupted. A woman with a child of her own, whose knowledge would likely help Sansa in the coming months.

“If you would not object, Lady Gilly, I am in need of another handmaiden.”

*****

After only three days of being in her service, Gilly laid a cup of tea upon Sansa’s dressing table as she brushed her hair. Unable to recall requesting it, Sansa paused and lifted the cup to her nose, inhaling the scent warily.

“Ginger?” she asked, looking up at the other woman with a furrowed brow.

“It settles an ill stomach,” Gilly said bluntly, her eyes cutting purposefully to Sansa’s middle. “It’s not used much in the kitchen so I asked Sam to keep a ration of it in the maester’s chambers.”

Sansa’s eyes grew wide at her words, her blood running cold as her heart gave such a jolt that she was certain it had leapt into her throat. Her hand lifted, pressing over her still-flat stomach out of sheer alarm.

“No one can know,” she said in a hushed voice, shaking her head. “ _ No one _ . Do you understand?”

Gilly nodded, a look of understanding crossing her face.

“I grew up ‘round it,” she said, her words meant to reassure. “It won’t be easy for anyone else to see.”

*****

She couldn’t help but grimace, shifting uncomfortably in her seat as Lord Glover raged on about Daenerys Targaryen and the rumors of her merciless army. Her skin burned too hot, as it often did at the most random of times, and she felt on the verge of sickness. Gilly assured her that this would pass soon enough, but Sansa found it hard to believe her when it seemed as if she’d been going through it for ages.

As she turned her head away from the restless lords and ladies that filled the hall, her stomach gave another lurch when she met the horribly knowing gaze of her brother. Sansa willed her mind to retain control of her body as Bran stared back at her. There was no judgment in or shame in his eyes. She almost would have preferred that to the awareness in his dark gaze.

He knew.

Sansa mustered as scorching a glare as she could manage, though he didn’t even flinch at the sight of it. She understood very little of what he could do but Sansa had no qualms about telling him to keep far away from her private moments and dangerous secrets. For this was nearly the most dangerous of all, second only to the truth of Jon’s birth.

“Your Highness?”

Lord Glover looked at her expectantly, wanting to hear her thoughts on his position. Many answers sprung to the forefront of her mind, though she could not express them without endangering Jon’s position. Not when everything was already precarious enough. Sansa had more than just the North to worry about. More than just herself and Jon and their people.

“My lords.”

She planted her hands flat on the table, maneuvering to her feet as she prepared to reassure them yet again that Jon would always do what was best for the North. But darkness suddenly clouded her vision and her stomach twisted violently as she listed to the side. Arya was there, quick as lightning, catching Sansa as she stumbled.

“Thank you,” Sansa mumbled, shifting onto her two feet once more as she blinked away the darkness.

Every eye in the room was fixed upon her and most were on their feet as if they could have caught her from where they stood. Sansa might have been grateful for their concern if her panic did not overwhelm all else. They could not see her so weak. They could not wonder at the source of her pale complexion and uneasy stomach. If they found out the truth, the consequences would be disastrous.

“You should rest, my lady,” Lord Royce spoke up, stepping forward with a fatherly worry in his eyes.

Sansa shook her head, refusing to hear it. There were more important things than her comfort.

“Your Highness.”

Maester Wolkan approached slowly, looking hesitant as he drew nearer to her.

“I do not have need of you,” Sansa all but snapped before reining herself in. “I did not sleep last night, that is all.”

Wolkan looked far from convinced by her excuse but he refrained from voicing his doubts, holding out his hand to show the scroll that he held with an unbroken seal. Sansa stared at it for a long moment, cold dread filling her. She knew who wrote the letter and, even worse, what it would say.

“Thank you, Maester Wolkan,” Sansa said quietly, reaching out to take the scroll. “I apologize for my abrupt words.”

“Worry not, Princess. I am far from offended,” Maester Wolkan said with a bow of his head.

Sansa broke the seal on the scroll with trembling fingers, still feeling rather faint as she unrolled the paper and read the scrawled words. Her breath seized in her throat, her eyes reading them once, then twice, before she lifted her head and inhaled deeply.

“What is it?” Arya asked quietly.

Even with all her impatience for politics, she knew better than to demand loudly in case it was something the gathering should not know.

“Daenerys Targaryen and her ships have landed at White Harbor. They are due to begin marching up the Kingsroad any day,” Sansa said, her voice carrying around the room. “They will likely arrive at Winterfell within a fortnight.”

She barely paid the mutters and curses from around the room any mind, letting the paper slip through her fingers and fall on the table as she read the signature again and again. 

_ Jon Snow, Warden of the North. _

Arya snatched it up to read Jon’s words, satisfied only when she could see it for herself. Sansa didn’t mind, finding it hard to wrap her own mind around it. Only a matter of days. That’s how long she had to figure out how to handle this situation. Her hand rose, pressing to her mouth as she felt bile rise suddenly in her throat. Sansa tried to fight through it but her stomach was quickly taking control, leaving her little choice but to excuse herself.

She fled through a nearby door, moving as quickly as she could until the cold outside air hit her full in the face. Sansa paid no mind to anyone who spoke to her, moving as quickly as she could. Soon enough, she was bent over nearly double in the shadow of the Great Hall with one hand gripping an outside wall and the other holding her hair back as she expelled her meager breakfast into the snow. She remained hunched over long after it stopped, breathing in and out as she dropped her hand from her hair to press firmly over her stomach.

“What in seven hells is wrong with you?”

Sansa exhaled slowly, hating how easily Arya could sneak about, even in ice and snow. Straightening up, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and shrugged her shoulders carelessly.

“My breakfast disagreed with me,” she said simply, turning to face her.

Arya stared her down, her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes narrowed to slits.

“I suggested more than once that we wait until Jon’s return to confront Littlefinger and you refused every time,” she said, tilting her head to the side. “Is this why?”

Sansa’s blood ran cold at once. What had given her away? Did Arya overhear a conversation with Gilly? Did Bran tell her? Who else might know? Would word spread of her condition before she could even tell the father of her child?

“He couldn’t know,” Sansa whispered, shaking her head. “You don’t know what he might have done.”

Arya stared at her for another long moment before nodding her head.

“That’s good enough for me,” she said before turning to walk away.

Sansa let her go, leaning back against the wall with a heavy sigh. When her father brought Jon to Winterfell and presented him as a bastard, it changed many things. But the consequences would have been far more disastrous if he’d told the truth of Jon’s heritage. Sansa could only imagine what might happen if the world discovered that she carried a Targaryen bastard, much like her aunt before her.

*****

“Your Highness.”

Apart from Bran, Arya, and her own handmaidens, very few people dared to approach Jon’s solar when she withdrew behind the closed door. So Sansa felt understandably wary when an unfamiliar knock drew her attention away from the tome before her, calling out for whoever it was to enter and trusting that the guards would not let a stranger approach. It was Lord Samwell himself who stood before her, looking quite hesitant to enter. She could not help but eye him warily, fearing that Gilly might have told him something about her condition. Yet Sansa waved him in anyway, trusting that he meant her no harm. He bore a heavy book himself, stirring her curiosity as he drew nearer.

“This is Jon’s solar,” Samwell said, looking around with a slight smile. “I suppose it’s a bit better than the one that came before.”

Sansa could not help the small laugh that rose to her lips. She had seen the Lord Commander’s solar at Castle Black. A small, dreary room with hardly any light or comfort to it. The king’s solar, one that formerly belonged to her father, may not have been as plush or richly decorated as those in the south but it outmatched the one at Castle Black with ease.

“A bit,” she agreed, sharing an amused look with Samwell as she rose to her feet. “Have you brought me a gift, my lord? If so, I must warn you that I have read so many thick tomes in the last several months that I will find it altogether impossible to thank you for adding another to the stack.”

Samwell’s cheeks flushed as he drew nearer, giving her a shake of his head to reassure her.

“I won’t force you to keep it,” he promised, laying the book upon the desk only to hesitate before he could open it.

Sansa followed his line of sight to Jon’s crown where it still lay, always within reach as her own odd source of comfort.

“I can’t find it within myself to let it go far, though I suppose I should have it put in a safer place,” Sansa said, reaching out to brush her fingers over one of the swords. “It reminds me of him.”

She felt his eyes upon her and sensed that she was being studied. Somehow, Sansa knew what he was thinking before he even spoke.

“He didn’t mention you much,” Samwell said, his eyes growing wide as soon as the words passed his lips. “Oh, seven hells. I’m sorry, Your Highness. Er- Sansa. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just-”

Sansa let out a small laugh, shaking her head as he blustered his way through an apology.

“I’m not surprised, nor am I offended,” she assured him, watching as he allowed himself a deep breath as his cheeks flamed with embarrassment. “We weren’t close as children. Not anything like he was with Arya and Robb.”

A look of sudden understanding passed over Samwell’s face, only for sadness to take its place.

“I’m the one who told him… about your brother,” he said quietly, and Sansa felt a sudden rush of grief even though she mentioned Robb first. “He wasn’t at Castle Black when we got word, and I didn’t want him to hear it from anyone else. They wouldn’t have been kind about it and Jon… well he deserved to have someone who cared. I didn’t think I’d feel so helpless telling him. There wasn’t anything I could do for him except be there, you know? I can’t imagine it, to be honest. If my brother died and I was so far away that I couldn’t do anything about it.”

Sansa pressed her lips together and turned away, blinking back the tears that sprang to her eyes. There was no kindness in how she found out about Robb and her mother. Not that she expected anything after living in the Red Keep for so long.

“It’s good that you were there to tell him,” she said softly, recalling how angrily Shae accosted the two maids they heard talking about it in Sansa’s own bedchamber.

A few moments passed in awkward silence before he let out a small sigh.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Samwell confessed with a certain awe in his words. “Jon as a king.”

He shook his head with a huff of disbelieving laughter as Sansa turned to face him, her face falling into a frown before she could think better of it.

“He’s not.”

Samwell’s eyes settled upon her face once more.

“Not what?” he questioned.

Pulling out a drawer, Sansa withdrew the letter that announced Jon’s impending return. The same letter that had caused her to be sick mere days ago. Handing it over to Sam, she allowed him to unfold the parchment and read it.

“He’s bent the knee,” Sansa said, her stomach churning once more at the thought of him laying his sword at the feet of Daenerys Targaryen.

_ I’ve heard gossip that the Dragon Queen is quite beautiful. _ Even now, Petyr’s words seemed to mock her. 

“He can’t have,” Samwell all but cried, sounding somewhat horrified.

Sansa blinked up at him, wondering why he seemed slow to believe it when Jon’s actions were spelled out quite clearly in the letter that he wrote.

“I’ve been trying to find a way to tell the lords in a way that will prevent them from abandoning us,” she said, moving away from him. “It won’t matter much if he brings the Targaryen forces here if all the rest decide to leave. Even if we do win the fight against the dead, we will be faced with a hostile North in the aftermath.”

“No, it’s not that,” Samwell said, opening the book that he brought with him. “Jon is the king.”

“He gave away his crown. He swore himself  _ and _ the North to Daenerys Targaryen.”

“Because he didn’t know. Because no one knew until now.”

There was a satisfied glint in Samwell’s eyes and a much brighter flush in his cheeks as Sansa walked back to the desk slowly.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, dropping her eyes to read where he pointed.

To fully understand what he wanted her to know, Sansa found herself reading the words over three times before she lifted her head to meet his gaze with wide eyes.

“An annulment?” she breathed.

Samwell gave her an eager nod, slamming the book closed and nearly making her jump at the loud sound.

“It all made sense when I spoke to your brother,” he said, lifting the book into his arms.

_ Bran. _ Sansa let her eyes fall closed, briefly wondering if he had known about this before Samwell even showed up in Winterfell. 

“Jon can’t have truly bent the knee to Daenerys because in the event of a Targaryen restoration to the Iron Throne, she isn’t the true heir,” Samwell went on, sounding quite satisfied. “He is.”

“You can tell no one,” Sansa said vehemently, remembering saying almost the same words to Gilly.

Samwell’s face fell as she stared at him with a fierce, determined look upon her face. 

“But-”

“It is dangerous enough that he is Rhaegar Targaryen’s son,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed upon his. “If the world discovered that he is the true Targaryen heir to the throne, not to mention Daenerys Targaryen, the consequences may well be disastrous. If you care for him at all, and if you want to protect him, you will keep this to yourself.”

Samwell glanced down at the book in his arms, uncertainty stirring in his eyes. After a moment, he gave a slow nod of agreement.

“For Jon,” he said, looking up at her with a determined look in his own eyes.

Sansa felt a crushing relief weigh upon her chest as she mirrored his nod with one of her own.

“For Jon.”

*****

In the courtyard of Winterfell, with the dragons’ cries still echoing in her mind, Sansa stood at the forefront of the crowd of noblemen and smallfolk alike. She kept her hands clasped before her, refusing to let anyone see how they trembled. From all directions, she could feel eyes upon her. They all looked to her first. Awaiting her reaction before they gave any sign of their own thoughts. The gates creaked open as the company drew nearer. Sansa wished, more than anything, to have Arya at her side. But her sister was lurking somewhere, doing what she did best these days. Watching. Listening. Learning.

He was the first to ride through the gates. Sansa’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of him. He looked no different from the day that he left. She almost wished that he did. If she could see a change in him, perhaps his choices would be easier to swallow. Even knowing what he had done, she felt her heart skip a beat at the sight of him. Her hands twitched towards her stomach, where the slight swell of it was hidden by the careful lacing of a cleverly designed gown, dove grey in color and decorated with carefully stitched flowers on the bodice and sleeves. Her hair spilled about her shoulders, almost entirely free apart from the two sections neatly pinned at her temples.

“When will you tell him?” Bran’s quiet voice reached her ears.

Sansa swallowed hard, strangling the urge that rose within her to bite back at him with a wolf’s growl in her voice. It was all too easy to irritate her these days. Gilly told her that it was normal for her emotions to fluctuate this way. Arya simply snorted her amusement each time a lord managed to aggravate her to the point of flushed cheeks and cold, stilted words. Lifting her chin, she watched as Jon dismounted and did her very best to keep the turmoil that stirred within her from showing on her face.

“That is the least of my concerns,” Sansa said just as quietly, her eyes flitting past Jon to settle upon those who followed him through the gates.

It was all too easy to name the queen that inspired him to bend the knee. There was none other with such a singular shade of hair. Daenerys Targaryen was as beautiful as Petyr claimed, with her silver-gold hair plaited into several braids and wide violet eyes. From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Jon approaching and refused to look at him even as her cheeks warmed and her heart began to beat faster in her chest. She watched the queen’s lips press together in a thin line as her eyes followed Jon before she permitted a man with broadset shoulders and balding hair to help her from the white horse that she rode.

The rustle of fabric and an audible sigh of utter relief reached her ears as Jon bent at the waist to gather Bran into a tight embrace. Sansa still did not look to him, her nerves getting the better of her as her stomach twisted and fluttered. She prayed and prayed that she would not lose control over it now. The sickness had begun to fade, though she still found herself losing her meals on occasion. Tyrion climbed out of a wheelhouse, looking rather displeased as he pulled his cloak tighter around him and all but glared up at the grey sky that would undoubtedly begin sprinkling snow upon them at any moment. Jon knelt before Bran, his hand cupping his cheek.

“Look at you,” he breathed.

Sansa hated that the sound of his voice sent a rush of warmth through her, even though he wasn’t speaking to her. She hated that he could still have that affect on her after months of near silence. After entrusting the North to her and then going to great lengths to keep her at such a distance. After bending the knee to a foreign queen that sought to subjugate them all. Another familiar face followed Tyrion from the wheelhouse. Lord Varys. Sansa felt a surge of distrust, arranging her face into a mask of polite indifference. There was no telling what the Spider would see if he looked at her. She felt quite determined to give him nothing at all.

“You’re a man now,” Jon declared, a note of pride in his voice as he looked Bran in the eye.

“Almost,” her brother said, that same distant strangeness to his voice.

Sansa felt Jon’s eyes flit to her but she did not look back at him, her eyes flitting from one face to the next. A shudder ran through her at the sight of a man whose face was half-scarred. She let her eyes fall closed for a single moment and wildfire burst in her vision. She could smell it in the air, and taste the wine that Cersei made her drink upon her tongue. His voice rasped in her ear.  _ Little bird. _ Sansa opened her eyes again, forcing herself to push the memories away. Brienne had prepared her for it, knowing that she had her own dealings with Sandor Clegane, so long ago that it felt like a completely different lifetime.

She had certainly been a completely different person then.

Jon rose to his feet and she distantly heard him greet Samwell with a hug. Then he stepped closer to her. Sansa knew that she could delay no longer. There was nothing else to look at, unless she wanted to observe the Dragon Queen again. The thought of doing so made her stomach churn once more. No, she did not want to look at that woman. She did not want to reimagine all the possibilities that Petyr planted in her mind with his cleverly designed words. Her head turned to the side ever so slightly, her eyes finally,  _ finally,  _ meeting his. Her breath caught in her throat as her heart beat faster than a hummingbird’s wings in her chest. 

She felt the warmth bloom within her, spreading to every inch of her body as she looked into his dark grey eyes and saw nothing to indicate that he was anything but the Jon that she knew. The Jon that she trusted. The Jon that she loved.  _ Her _ Jon. They moved as if they possessed one mind between them, her arms opening to him just as he surged forward and gathered her in a firm embrace. Sansa felt him bury his face in her hair as his arms wrapped around her beneath the cloak that she wore, straightening up so that he lifted her ever-so-slightly off of the ground in his zeal.

She let her eyes fall closed as he held her, forgetting all else but the fact that he was there,  _ finally there _ , after all this time. Time passed slowly and she cared little for it, feeling his lips skim over her throat as he turned his head. For a single alarming moment, Sansa feared that he intended to kiss her. Even more so, she feared that she might let him. Then he lifted his lips to her ear and held her even closer, if such a thing was possible. Sansa’s eyes fluttered open as he whispered two words so that only she could hear, her gaze fixing up on Daenerys Targaryen as dread settled within her like a heavy weight.

“Trust me.”

There was something covetous in the Dragon Queen’s eyes as Jon settled Sansa upon her feet once more and released her. A hint of displeasure in the curve of a pleasant smile. Why would she feel such possession over Jon, unless he gave her a reason for it? Sansa felt cold as she pulled away, dropping her arms and refusing to meet Jon’s eyes as she stepped back to stand at Bran’s side. She felt Jon look between them before glancing around with a small frown, clearly wondering where Arya was before he seemed to remember himself, turning back to the queen that he brought into their home.

“Your Grace,” he said, holding his hand out to her.

A hush fell over the courtyard and Sansa glanced around to see displeasure cross the face of every northern lord and lady there. She knew that this wouldn’t be easy. It was up to her to ensure that they remained loyal. She couldn’t have cared less for the Dragon Queen and her army except that Jon had risked himself by bringing them there. There was every chance that this unfamiliar queen would sniff out any trace of disloyalty and burn Winterfell to the ground with all of them in it. Sansa had a fine line to walk and she knew that she had to begin now.

“This is Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, and Brandon Stark, our brother.”

Sansa nearly jolted at the oddness of the lie upon his lips, as well as the purposeful avoidance of a title that Jon gave her himself. If he was no more than the Warden of the North, then she was no more than the Lady of Winterfell. The lords and ladies stirred all around them, latching onto his words as well. Sansa could already feel a headache building in her temples at the thought of how much work she’d have to do to fix this.

“Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark,” Daenerys said as if Sansa had any choice in the matter, glancing around the courtyard with vague interest. “The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed. As are you.” 

Sansa’s eyes flitted to Jon for a brief moment only to see the slightest traces of confusion in his eyes. Not aimed at her, but at Daenerys. He must not have spoken of her at all, then. The queen was trying to earn her trust with useless flattery. A trick that might have worked on the child that Sansa once was, all those years ago. Another queen managed to fool her with sweet words and smiles. Sansa would be damned if she let it happen again. She knew better now. 

“Winterfell is yours, Your Grace,” Sansa said with a forced smile, sinking into a curtsy.

After a moment of heavy silence, the rest of the courtyard followed her lead. Over the rustle of fabric as they all bowed and curtsied, Sansa heard a quiet sigh and resisted the urge to send Jon her fiercest glare. Straightening up to her full height once more, she kept her hands hidden in the folds of her gown and lifted her chin before speaking to Daenerys alone, refusing to look at anyone else. Parting her lips to speak, she did not get the chance before Bran spoke out with an impatient edge to his voice.

“We don’t have time for this.”

“Bran,” Sansa said reprovingly, her eyes cutting to him with a purposeful glint within them.

He did not even spare her a glance. She felt frustration rise within her. Why were they all determined to make this so much more difficult?

“The Wall has fallen,” Bran declared, his face impassive as ever as gasps and mutters filled the air around them.

Though this was nothing new to her, for he relayed the information to her and Arya as soon as he knew, Sansa felt her heart sink at his words.

“How?” Jon said, disbelief in his voice.

“He added your dragon to his ranks,” her brother said simply, his eyes moving to Daenerys. “Viserion’s fire gave him all that he needed to break through the Wall.”

“Bran,” Sansa said again, her voice taking on a harsh, warning sound.

She did not bother to meet Bran’s gaze as he looked to her, focusing instead upon the ashen face of the Dragon Queen.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” Sansa said, hoping to smooth things over before Bran’s lack of tact ruined any chance of placating the woman. “My brother has suffered greatly in the last several years and does not always consider the effect of his words before he speaks.”

Daenerys looked as if she might actually spit fire before her eyes drifted over the chair where Bran sat and she seemed to think better of it. With a brief nod, she seemed to let go of her anger at Bran’s abrupt, careless words. Before he could say anything more, Sansa continued on determinedly.

“I have overseen the preparation of your chambers myself,” Sansa said, gathering her skirts and shifting on the spot as the crowd parted to ease their way to the Great Keep. “I shall accompany you there, if you wish.”

The words tasted bitter on her tongue even as she spoke them. Deferring to Daenerys gave her an ill feeling that was nothing like that wish she’d experienced over the last few months. The sickness that came with carrying a child was little compared to the horrible feeling of bending to the will of someone who did nothing to earn the loyalty of the North. Daenerys gave little more than a nod, as if she was committing some great act of charity by agreeing to Sansa’s suggestion. Ire stirred within her as she turned away, hiding her displeasure as she led them into the castle just as flurries of snow began falling gracefully from the sky.

She felt the audible shift from uncertainty to relief as their southron visitors crossed the threshold from the cold winter air to the warmth that existed within the walls of the keep. As she guided them through the corridors, Sansa felt  _ his _ gaze upon her, heavy and relentless. The guest chambers sat as far from the wing that her family resided in as Sansa could manage without insulting the Targaryen queen and her retinue by placing them all the way out in the guest house. Even if she did wish to have them as far away as she could manage.

If she had it her way, they would not reside in the halls of her ancestors at all. But Sansa knew that she could not offer such insult to those meant to be their allies in the coming wars. Daenerys disappeared within her chambers without so much as a second look at Sansa, her face still etched with displeasure as it had been since Bran spoke so thoughtlessly of the dragon she had lost. Had he mentioned his intention to Sansa, she would have counseled him against announcing it in that manner. But there was every chance that he may not have listened. Along with their cousin before him, it seemed that Stark-blooded men seemed quite steadfast in their stubborn disregard for the thoughts of others.

Turning away from Daenerys’ chambers, where she was accompanied by several women that were no doubt part of her household, Sansa felt a rise of relief within her as she realized that the castle steward took it upon himself to show Daenerys’ advisors to their chambers himself, thereby releasing her from any obligation to guide them. Sansa inhaled deeply and let out a slow, relieved sigh before tensing as she heard a familiar set of approaching steps. It might have been comforting to know that she could still sense him so easily, even after all these months, if every part of her did not scream out with a desperate need to avoid this inevitable confrontation at all costs.

Sansa turned her back on him before he could say a single word, a single-minded determination taking over. She set a brisk pace through the keep, wishing more than anything that he may take a hint and allow her the escape. If he called out her name, she had little hope of hearing him over the rustle of her gown and the roaring sound in her ears as she all but darted through the corridors. Sansa nearly collided with more than one person as she rounded corners without paying any mind to her surroundings. As she reached her chambers, she shoved the door open and drew a startled gasp from Alarra’s lips as the door banged against the wall.

She did not even bother to close it behind her, knowing that he would catch it before it could shut completely. As he followed her within, Sansa gripped at the back of a chair and felt her chest rise and fall quickly as emotions warred within her. Crushing relief and simmering fury and heart-wrenching love tangled together and enveloped her completely as Alarra sank into a curtsy and whispered “Your Grace” before turning to her mistress for any sort of instruction on what she should do. Before Sansa could even think of what she might say, Jon’s voice rang out.

“Leave.”

Sansa’s head lifted and she finally looked to him with a glare, refusing to acknowledge the heat that unfurled within her as she felt the full force of his eyes fixed upon her with no one else around to steal away his attention. Just as quickly as she looked, Sansa turned away from him and unclasped her cloak, draping it across the chair and inhaling deeply as she tried to exert some measure of control over the mess of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her completely. She jumped slightly as the door shut and the latch fell into place. It wasn’t meant to happen this way. Before, Jon never would have pursued her like that. He would have never been so bold. It took a single night for everything to change, in more ways than one.

“Look at me.”

Sansa shook her head, pressing a hand over her racing heart.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said, hating how breathless she sounded to her own ears.

“Sansa.”

Tears stung at her eyes at the sound of her name upon his lips.

“Don’t,” she all but begged, shaking her head more vigorously. “Please.”

The warmth of his hands seeped through her gown as he gently took hold of her shoulders and turned her to face him. Sansa refused to lift her eyes, tears blurring her vision as she focused on the straps of the cloak he still wore. A cloak that she sewed herself. Jon’s lips brushed over her forehead as he breathed out her name once more. She shivered in his embrace as he drew her in closer.

“Look at me,” he said again.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

His hand cupped her chin gently, tilting her head up until she had little choice but to meet that dark, intoxicating gaze.

“We can’t do this,” Sansa said, trying to convince herself to pull away before it became altogether impossible. “So much has happened. So much is different.”

“Please,” Jon said, his hand shifting until it pressed over her cheek. “I know- I know that we have to talk about it. I know that, but not now. Please, Sansa. Please just…”

He didn’t say another word and Sansa did nothing to stop him as he gathered her in close with an arm suddenly wrapped around her waist, swallowing her gasp of surprise as his lips captured hers in a kiss. Sansa found herself captivated before she could think it through, winding her arms around his shoulders and responding with a desperation born of the months spent so far from one another. It was as if no time had passed at all. As if their bodies recalled the first time they kissed in this very room and sought to reacquaint themselves with the passion of that night. Just as quickly as she gave herself over to the enticement of his kiss, Sansa pulled away with a gasp and pushed at his shoulders to keep him at a distance.

“We can’t,” she said again, a tear slipping down her cheek.

Jon let out a sigh, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Gods, I missed you,” he confessed, his hand closing over her hip, so close to the slight swell of her stomach.

Sansa’s heart skipped at the thought of him feeling the small bump before she could explain. As much as she wanted to lean into the words and kiss him until they were both breathless, in spite of all her anger at his actions and fear of their future, she restrained herself and pulled his hands away from her.

“You don’t understand,” she said with a shake of her head.

Jon’s face suddenly fell, a heartbreaking sadness stirring in his eyes.

“Is there another?” he asked, though he sounded as if he did not want to know the answer.

Sansa barely withheld a hysterical laugh at the irony of him asking such a question when he rode into Winterfell with a beautiful, unmarried queen at his side. If anyone had a right to ask such things, it was her.

“No, there isn’t,” Sansa said, shaking her head.

“Then what is it?” he asked.

Sansa opened her mouth, though she had no inkling of what she might say, only to snap it shut when she heard the sound of footsteps passing by. If she spoke the words, anyone might hear her. Something as monumental and dangerous as this should only be whispered in the dead of night where none might hear her. Where no one could learn of it and use it against them.

“We can’t do this,” she said, turning away from him as her fear and hesitation took over.

“Sansa.”

Jon caught her wrist, holding her back before she even took two steps. Sansa looked up at him, trepidation filling her as she saw the confusion in his eyes.

“You’re beginning to worry me.”

This time, a laugh did escape her lips, though it was by no means amused.

“You should be worried,” Sansa said, pulling her wrist from his gentle grip.

“Sansa, please listen to me on this. I know that you must be angry but I cannot explain to you how much we need Daenerys and her-”

“I’m with child.”

Jon’s body grew as still as stone, his eyes wide and his lips parted as he stared at her. Sansa cursed inwardly, hating that she’d announced it so abruptly. With tears in her eyes and shaking hands grabbing at her skirts, she backed away another step and shook her head.

“You should be worried,” Sansa repeated as another tear slipped down her cheek.

With that, she rushed to flee from her own chambers. Though she knew it was the way of a coward, Sansa couldn’t bear to see the look upon his face when it sank in. She couldn’t bear to see horror and regret in his eyes. Not when she felt like she could break apart at any second. She simply could not bear it. All that she needed was more time. A little longer to pretend like her world wasn’t about to shatter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear your thoughts!


End file.
